


Daddy and Mr. Pancakes

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Baby Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Consensual Sex, Dry Orgasm, Eskel is a Good Bro, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Footsie, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Growly Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hair-pulling, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier cries, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Laughing Geralt, Laughing Jaskier, Love Bites, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Abuse, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Single Dad Geralt, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Teacher Jaskier, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Valdo Marx Being an Asshole, Wall Sex, flexible Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: "Daddy, this is Mr. Pancakes!"Ciri was saying more, but Geralt didn't hear a word of it. The blood surging through his ears, his head drowned his little girl's delicate voice—and it was a good thing all that blood was staying in his head instead of rushing down to his cock.Mr. Pancakes, who stood next to Ciri, who stood in front of him in that demure tweed jacket over a teal sweater and dark tie, was the beautiful, radiant man he'd fucked multiple times last night. Against the wall. In the man's bed. In the shower afterwards, moaning his name.________________________Anxious about Ciri's first day of kindergarten tomorrow, single dad Geralt goes to a gay bar to find someone to fuck and release tension--and meets Jaskier, a very flexible,verywilling partner. They have a night of rough, torrid sex, and it's exactly what Geralt needs. The next afternoon at the school, Geralt meets Ciri's teacher: the fire-hot one night stand he thought he would never meet again.(Originally multiple Twitter fics at@giddytf2!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Valdo Marx/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 529





	1. At the School

**Author's Note:**

> Twelve thousand plus words and counting, this geraskier AU hit me like a giant, ripe banana to my brain when I came across the prompt: "one night stand turns out to be their child's teacher au". Imagine how surprised _I_ was when I twitficced the first three chapters of this story over a period of three days--[here](https://twitter.com/giddytf2/status/1363383738722230272) and [here](https://twitter.com/giddytf2/status/1363533717990371328)\--and almost 7000 words of it so far is Geralt railing Jaskier to kingdom come and back with his big cock. 
> 
> And with that--enjoy! 🍌🍑💦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

"Daddy, this is Mr. Pancakes!"

Ciri was saying more, but Geralt didn't hear a word of it. The blood surging through his ears, his head drowned his little girl's delicate voice—and it was a good thing all that blood was staying in his head instead of rushing down to his cock.

Mr. Pancakes, who stood next to Ciri, who stood in front of him in that demure tweed jacket over a teal sweater and dark tie, was the beautiful, radiant man he'd fucked multiple times last night. Against the wall. In the man's bed. In the shower afterwards, moaning his name.

Those large blue eyes had stared at him with such lust, such wonder last night.

Now, they stared at him with a polite coldness that froze his surging blood in his veins.

"Mr. du Haute-Bellegarde," that mellifluous voice said. In it was none of the warmth he'd heard last night.

Geralt glanced down at the badge clipped to the man's jacket lapel.

"Mr. Pankratz," he greeted.

He stared into those pretty blue eyes. His hands stayed loose at his sides. His toes curled in his boots.

No, he had not imagined the flicker of those eyelids when he'd spoken.

_Gods, you have the sexiest voice ever. Say my name again. Please, Geralt._

"Daddy, Mr. Pancakes is my teacher!"

Geralt was thankful for Ciri grabbing his hand and shaking it to get his attention. He tore his eyes away from Jask—from Mr. Pankratz and smiled softly down at Ciri.

"Yes, babusiu, I know," Geralt murmured, stroking the precious roundness of Ciri's head.

As children were wont to do, Ciri gave him a dazzling smile, then promptly scampered back into the school playground to resume playing with her new friends. He watched her go, still smiling.

He took his time turning his head back to face Mr. Pankratz. He didn't want to see that coldness in those pretty blues. He didn't want to know what he'd lost.

But Mr. Pankratz was now staring down at his left hand.

The beautiful man's expression was arresting. Raw. Heartbroken.

And then he understood why he was being given such a cold shoulder.

"I'm not married," he blurted out, his eyes wide, as imploring as his gravelly voice was.

Mr. Pankratz's head snapped up. Those large blue eyes stared at him again and—the coldness was draining away so fast.

"I'm—a single dad." He cleared his throat, ignoring the warming of his cheeks. "Ciri is my adopted daughter."

Mr. Pankratz said nothing and blinked a few times. As if he couldn't believe what Geralt just said.

"Uhm." Geralt lowered his eyes. "I still can't believe it either."

He cleared his throat again then returned Mr. Pankratz's wide-eyed gaze.

"A few years ago, my friend Yennefer was going to meet her adopted baby for the first time, and she was—worried." His lips quirked up. His eyes crinkled. "She didn't want to be alone. So I went with her." His lips curled up into a small smile. "Everything went fine for her. She fell in love instantly with her baby. And I suppose—" His cheeks heated up. "When I walked around the orphanage, and saw Ciri in her crib—so did I."

All that coldness was gone from those pretty blues.

In its place was that sweet warmth he'd seen last night. That sweet, rare warmth he'd already missed so much.

"She didn't have a name then. She—" He lowered his head. Stared down at the grass between their feet. "The social worker said nobody wanted her. Because she was—"

He raised his head and turned it to gaze at Ciri running around in the playground. Her flower-dotted, green dress flapped around her as she chased another girl, laughing and squealing with excitement.

"Because she was different. Because of her hair, her eyes. She was—sickly."

Here he was, facing Mr. Pankratz under the mild, early afternoon sun—but in his vivid memory, he was also in that sterile, white orphanage room, cuddling a four-month-old Ciri for the very first time. She was wrapped in a thick blanket. She stopped crying when he smiled at her.

She stared up at him with such big, light-colored eyes that held not an iota of fear in them.

And when she enclosed her fragile, tiny fingers around his forefinger, she smiled too.

_So much for that big fuck you to destiny, hm, Geralt?_

He'd simply made a face at Yen then.

But she'd been right: for all that he hated the idea of destiny controlling his life, he was grateful to it if it meant being blessed with Ciri.

He was grateful.

"I know how it feels to be—" The words snagged in Geralt's constricted throat. He cleared his throat again. "I know."

He gazed at Mr. Pankratz again. It almost hurt to stand in the radiance of that gentle, sincere smile Mr. Pankratz was bestowing upon him. Perhaps it was the sunlight that made those crinkled blue eyes glisten, or his own imagination.

"I'm—sorry." His cheeks felt fire hot. He lowered his eyes once more. "I don't—talk so much all the time."

"You should," Mr. Pankratz murmured, with a benevolent gravity that locked their soft gazes again. "It takes skill to say so much with so few words."

Geralt pressed his lips together. His eyes crinkled even more. He didn't know what he'd said to infuse that mellifluous voice with so much affection, but he was grateful for it too.

He hadn't lost anything, after all.

If Mr. Pankratz taking a step closer to him was any indication—he'd gained something precious today. Something beautiful.

"My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz." Mr. Pankratz tapped his badge with a forefinger. "But I highly prefer Jaskier."

Geralt curbed his smile to say, "My name really is Geralt."

Mr. Pankratz's—no, Jaskier's lips tremored.

"Well. Good to know I was moaning the right name last night."

Geralt couldn't stop the rumble of lust emanating from his chest even if he'd tried. He could see Jaskier sprawled on those navy sheets again, clutching at a pillow above that head of dark hair, jerked back and forth by brutal thrusts.

He could hear Jaskier moan his name so loud.

"I've been thinking of you all day," he rasped.

To his delight, Jaskier's smooth cheeks turned tomato-red. He let his smile loose. It expanded into a fanged grin that made those cheeks redden even more.

"Geralt," Jaskier said, pressing both hands to those red, bunched cheeks.

"What?"

Geralt took a step forward. It shrank the space between them to mere inches of simmering heat, longing, and lust that never ebbed.

Still covering his red cheeks, Jaskier looked him in the eye and whispered, "I haven't stopped thinking about you from the moment I saw you."

He could kiss Jaskier. Just a quick one, so quick nobody would notice. He could—but then he would chase after another, and another, and then he—

He leaned forward, angling his head. With quivering lips, Jaskier also leaned forward, angling his head in the opposite direction.

"MR. PANCAKES! DADDY!"

With simultaneous yells of shock, Geralt and Jaskier jumped back from each other at Ciri's deafening call. She dashed up to them with an item grasped in each small hand.

"For you, Mr. Pancakes!"

Still clutching at his own chest, Jaskier smiled down at her. He bent at the waist and offered her his palm so she could deposit her gift on it.

"Thank you so much, Ciri!"

Geralt also smiled at the bunch of bright dandelions Ciri had plucked for Jaskier. His smile widened when his daughter swiveled to him with that eternally charming grin.

"Daddy, for you!"

He bent down and offered his palm to her. Onto it she dropped a—coarse, grey rock.

He gazed down at it, still smiling softly, eyes still crinkled: yes, it was just a random rock from the ground. But it was also a rock his beloved daughter had chosen for him.

She had looked at it, then thought about him and how giving him a gift would make him happy.

"Thank you, babusiu," he murmured, meaning every word. He kissed his gift from destiny on her crown. "It's lovely."

He and Jaskier watched her gaily sprint back to the other children.

They turned to each other in unison, lips tremoring with mirth. Jaskier cracked first, letting out a chuckle of amusement that freed Geralt's. They laughed together, and under the sunshine, Jaskier's hair was gilded with ephemeral gold, and Geralt knew how soft it was to touch.

Maybe he knew now what it felt like to fall in love. Maybe, just maybe, he would know what it felt like to be in love for a very, very long time, with someone who was in love with him too.

"There _are_ fraternization rules." Jaskier made a face. "But!" Jaskier raised his eyebrows. "They're strictly for school staff. There's no formal policy against a teacher having a relationship with a student's parent." Jaskier raised a forefinger and wagged it. "As long as both parties keep it very hush-hush, and are mature adults about it."

Geralt stared at him.

"I'm good at maintaining silence," he rasped, straight-faced. "Big hand over a big mouth. As you know."

The aforementioned big mouth fell open in outward outrage. Big blue eyes gleamed above it with unbridled mirth.

"Excuse you, Mr. du Haute-Bellegarde! I have no idea what you mean!"

Geralt stepped forward and closed the distance between them to mere inches of simmering heat and burgeoning longing and adamant lust once more.

"You will. Again." His voice became sultry gravel burning them both. He grinned at the sight of Jaskier's throat bobbing. "Tonight?"

Geralt fully expected those pretty blues to shut with regret: today was the first day of school, and Jaskier was likely swamped with work. Still, it was fun to see whether Jaskier might—cave in to him.

"I'm sorry, Geralt." Jaskier opened his eyes to half-mast. "I really can't."

"Tomorrow night?"

Jaskier's throat bobbed again.

“The night after?"

"Can't." Jaskier stared back at him from under those long, thick lashes. "The weekend. So you can—stay for the night."

Geralt's own throat bobbed with sudden emotion. He'd wanted to stay with Jaskier last night. He'd really wanted to stay in that cozy bed, clasping Jaskier tight to him, kissing that pale nape. Listening to Jaskier's quiet breaths. Feeling Jaskier's steady heartbeat under his palm.

But he'd left after Jaskier fell asleep, after carding his fingers through tousled hair.

He'd left—for he had been so sure that in the stark light of day, with all his ugly scars and long, white hair and freakish amber eyes on display, Jaskier could never possibly desire him again.

Here he was, standing under brilliant afternoon sunlight.

Here he was, and so was Jaskier.

Jaskier, who saw him in the stark light of day. Jaskier, who wanted to see him again.

Jaskier, who wanted him to stay.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was hoarse but no less steadfast. "Okay, the weekend." He leaned forward, stopping short of the tips of their noses grazing. "I like scrambled eggs and sausages."

Jaskier stared on into his eyes with bright, crinkled ones.

"What a coincidence," Jaskier murmured. "I'm very good at cooking the former. And devouring the latter."

They bloomed into broad grins at the same time. Geralt let out a low hum.

Still grinning, Geralt forced himself to step back, until an arm's breadth of space separated them. Jaskier didn't stop him, and he was glad. There were too many people around. No stopping them if they touched each other now.

Jaskier was so beautiful.

Another gift from destiny.

Geralt called for Ciri who immediately darted to him and grasped his hand. He smiled down at her, his chest swelling with pride, with so much love that he ached to the core with it.

He glanced at Jaskier—and that exquisite ache within him didn't lessen.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Pankratz."

Jaskier's grin eased into an endearing smile that was just as breathtaking to Geralt.

"Good to meet you too, Mr. du Haute-Bellegarde." He lowered that mellifluous voice to rasp, "See you soon, Geralt."

The gratified rumble from Geralt's chest brought back that adorable blush.

Jaskier had already given his number to him. In a few hours from now, he would call Jaskier, and they would talk, and laugh, and Jaskier would have his number too.

In a few days from now, they would be together again, in the dark and in the light.

As it was destined to be.

"See you tomorrow, Mr. Pancakes!"

Ciri waved at Jaskier who waved back with a handful of the dandelions she'd picked for him. Geralt slipped the rock she'd given him into his leather jacket's side pocket for safekeeping.

He felt Jaskier's warm gaze upon him all the way to the car.

After he secured Ciri in the front passenger seat, she exclaimed, "Daddy!"

"Hmmn?"

The car growled to life with a tap of the key.

"I like Mr. Pancakes very much!"

She punctuated the solemn declaration with an equally solemn nod. He gazed at her, eyes crinkled and lips curled up. He then turned his head to gaze out the windscreen. There was nothing new about the school car park, or about the leafy trees flanking it, or about the other cars in it. They were things Geralt had seen countless times in his life.

But today, everything seemed brighter.

Everything seemed more beautiful. More worthwhile.

Even himself.

His lips stretched into a bright, beautiful thing that dawned in his golden eyes.

"Yes, babusiu," he said, maneuvering the car towards home, towards the future. "I like Mr. Pancakes very, very much too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babusiu is a Polish term of endearment that means "grandma". 
> 
> Yeah, it's explained in chapter 6. 😆


	2. In the Gay Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue sexy, heart-thumping soundtrack*
> 
>   
> 

As Geralt strode through the double doors of The White Wolf, he stripped off his black leather jacket, flexing his broad shoulders and letting it slip down his muscular arms to his wrists. His white tank top was so thin that it was semi-transparent. It stretched across his chest.

Under the gay bar's dim lights, he wasn't afraid of flaunting his scarred body. He knew that men and women alike had been sexually attracted to said body, if they didn't look too closely at its blemishes. He was brawny from decades of hard labor at the horse ranch. He was tough.

Tonight, he was on the hunt for a man to fuck into a moaning, squirming mess.

He wasn't leaving this bloody place until he did.

Letting his jacket dangle from one hand, he strode past scores of other men who blatantly stared at him. Ogled him from head to toes with stark eyes.

Yeah, they saw his body, saw his battered leather jacket and tank top at ripping point and skin-tight jeans that encased his arse and legs. They knew he was on the hunt.

He was a good hunter.

He was even better bait.

He leaned both hands on the bar, flaunting his tense arms. Arched his back, flaunting his arse and thighs. Shook his head, and felt his long, loose hair flow down his upper back. He didn't tie it in its customary half-up, half-down style. He wanted it free.

He wanted to be free.

He glowered at the bartender staring open-mouthed at him.

"Ale," he growled.

It took the bartender eight seconds to respond to his demand, so apparently entranced was the man by his chest. He couldn't comprehend what was so special about it: his pecs looked similar to other meaty pecs on other brawny men. He didn't think much about it.

He hummed with satisfaction after taking a gulp of the cold, refreshing ale. It was good. Very good. A nice start to the night.

He shut his eyes and tilted his head back, licking his lips.

He could feel a myriad of eyes staring at him. Drinking him in. Savoring the sight of him.

And not one of the fuckers had the guts to walk up to him.

But what else was new?

With a heavy sigh, he took another gulp of ale, his brow furrowed. This was also what happened the last time he was here: everyone found him—intimidating. Too _scary_ to approach, much less talk.

His old friend Eskel had once joked that even if he showed up in skimpy dungarees with his hair in pigtail buns, everyone would still find him far too intimidating. Smacking Eskel hard across the head hadn't stopped the berk from laughing himself hoarse over that imagery.

No, if none of these _idiots_ dared to approach him, he was _not_ going to give up. Someone in this godsforsaken place had to have what he so desperately needed tonight.

Scowling, he threw his jacket onto the counter. Swiveled around. Leaned against the bar, his elbows on it.

His jeans left next to nothing to the imagination of the shape and size of his cock. He was bigger and longer than average, he knew that much due to Lambert and a silly dare to show his genitals to him and Eskel when they were young.

Lambert's jaw had sagged. Eskel had gasped.

_What the fuck, Geralt? Did your mum fuck a horse?!_

He had _not_ appreciated that comparison, no matter what Eskel said about his undying love for horses.

With fierce eyes, he scanned the place from one side to the other. Narrowed them when so many averted theirs upon contact.

Cowards, so many cowards here—although they were a slim margin above the men who ogled him from afar as if he was a faceless piece of meat to be used. He wanted to fuck, but he also wanted to fuck someone who _wanted_ him in return, even if it was just for tonight.

He snarled.

He continued to scan the dim, vast room. His hands clenched into fists. His shoulders tautened as he hunted and hunted across a teeming gallery of diverse faces, and still saw no one worthy of—

His amber eyes locked with wide, kohl-lined blue ones.

And everyone else vanished.

His hands unclenched. His shoulders loosened. His eyes widened as they beheld the angelic face to which those bright blue eyes belonged. Shapely eyebrows arched high above them. A cute, short nose led down to pink, plump lips parted to reveal slivers of straight, pearly teeth. The tiniest of dips marked a firm chin. Despite the lateness of the hour, the man's cheeks and jaw only had the lightest stubble.

Geralt slowly stood upright, pushing himself off the bar, never taking his eyes off the other man.

The man didn't stare at him like the others.

The man stared at him with—awe. With wonder. As if he was an ethereal phenomenon the man had never before beheld.

He'd never been stared at that way in his whole life.

Until now.

Eyes still locked with the other man's, he plucked up his jacket and his half-full glass of ale. He lifted the glass to his lips. Gulped down more cool ale. Lowered the glass, then stared with eyes at half-mast into those so very wide blue eyes again.

He licked his lower lip from one end to the other.

_Come on, then. Show me what you've got._

Geralt swaggered from the bar.

He headed straight for an empty table in the corner. The crowd parted for him like rippling waves of the sea, staring at him as he passed, turning their heads to stare at him pulling out a chair at the table then lounging in it like a lethal big cat, thick legs spread wide apart.

His near-empty glass clunked when he set it on the table top. He carelessly threw his leather jacket on the table, aware of all the eyes upon him.

He didn't give a damn about any of them.

He only gave a fuck about those pretty, kohl-lined blue eyes and their pretty possessor.

He counted down the seconds in his mind, resting one hand on the table, tapping his fingers on its surface in time with the counting.

At the seventh second, he saw the man strut across the room towards him.

At the eleventh, he saw the man pluck a glass of ale off a serving tray.

At the fifteenth, the man strutted past the same staring, murmuring crowd, gripping the glass of ale with pale, slender hands.

At the twenty-first second, the man—the tall, _beautiful_ man—finally stood next to his table.

Geralt boldly skimmed his eyes down the man's lean body.

If his clothing was devoid of color, this man's clothing was the polar opposite: a rich red jacket seemingly covered in scales was tailored to broad shoulders and a surprisingly hirsute torso in a mesh-like tank top. Snug trousers of the same rich red showcased long, sturdy legs.

Geralt stared for a breathless while at the man's black stiletto boots.

It would be nice to fuck this tall, beautiful, vibrant man while those stiletto boots were still on. Very nice.

The man's pink, plump lips parted.

"I love the way you just—sit in the corner and brood."

Geralt's wide eyes snapped up to crinkled ones. Oh, if his hot blood wasn't already surging to his lower belly and hardening his cock, that mellifluous voice surely compelled it. It was the sublime voice of a singer, a seductor.

It was a voice he yearned to hear moan his name.

But he didn't want their game to end so soon.

This tall, beautiful, vibrant man with the voice of a fallen angel had yet to show him what he really had.

He schooled his features into a deadpan expression. He spread his thighs a little more.

The man's sultry gaze flitted down.

"I don't brood," he growled.

He counted at least four seconds before those blue eyes reluctantly glided up from his groin to meet his again.

"Mm, I beg to differ," the man said, strutting to stand opposite Geralt, table between them. "That sexy scowl? Lurking in the shadows?"

Geralt gritted his teeth to not shift in his seat upon seeing the man's ample, pert arse in profile. Each buttock was a perfect handful to squeeze. The perfect cushions while he pounded deep and hard into the hot, tight hole between them.

"Dressed in black and white? My, oh my." The man elegantly turned to face him. Not a drop of ale spilled from his glass. "You are the very definition of brooding, darling."

Geralt said nothing. He gazed up at the man, his cock throbbing, his chest swelling, his lips threatening to tremor into a wide, fanged grin. He tilted his head back. Pressed his lips tight, and narrowed his eyes in silent challenge.

_Come on. Show me what you've got, you heavenly creature._

The man also tilted that head of dark, medium-length hair back. Gazed down at him with scorching eyes that made his blood sing.

Slowly, deliberately, the man set his full glass of ale on the table.

The chair opposite Geralt at the table was identical to the one he lounged in: armless, with a solid, rounded back. He watched the man pull it out.

He totally expected the man to walk around to sit in it.

What the man did instead shot his rushing blood straight to lust-loaded, boiling point.

The man stared him in the eye the entire time as he gracefully swung one of those long, sturdy legs high into the air, high over the chair's back. The stiletto heel of his boot glinted sharp.

Geralt's eyes widened, more and more, as the man damn near did a vertical leg split without so much as a wobble before sitting down. He stared mesmerized at the agile sweep of those lean thighs, at the exposed region between them, clothed by a single, stretchy layer of rich red.

Flexible did not even _begin_ to describe this man's delectable body.

Geralt's mouth watered as the man made a sensuous show of straddling his seat. _Oh_ , with such flexible legs, such a sinuous, _responsive_ body—yes, this man was the one he was seeking. The one he needed.

_Yes._

"So." The man propped himself up with his forearms on the table. He leaned forward, his kohl-lined eyes shaded by long, mascara-thickened lashes. "I assume I'm exactly what you're looking for tonight."

Bewitchingly, intensely, the man gazed at him from under those lashes.

_Yes._

_You're the one._

Geralt drew in a long, deep breath that trembled only at its very end. He shifted, enough for his rock-hard cock to not feel so trapped. He sat up and also leaned his forearms on the table. Leaned forward, until their flushed faces were mere inches apart.

The man's gaze dropped to his lips, then skimmed up to his eyes. He also dropped his gaze to the man's so very kissable-looking lips. Stared at them, then flicked his heavy-lidded gaze back up.

"Geralt," he rasped.

The man moaned softly, as if he'd been fed a delicious morsel.

"Geralt," the man said huskily, licking those plump lips Geralt craved to suck, to bite. "I'm Jaskier."

Geralt also licked his lips. He could almost taste the delectation of the man's name on his tongue.

_Jaskier._

"Jaskier," he growled, infusing all his longing and lust into it.

Jaskier let out a louder, fractured moan that made Geralt's aching cock jerk hard in its denim confines. Pure instinct, utter inevitability, swiftly moved Geralt's right hand up to grip Jaskier's nape. To haul the trembling, smiling man's head forward and crush their lips together.

Jaskier shivered under his hand as if electrocuted, as if in the throes of ecstasy. He felt Jaskier's hand glide up his neck, felt those slender fingers threading through his hair. Their lips, wetted by ale and saliva, slid together easily, matched in desperation and ferocity.

Geralt's breaths were stolen by the slick, frenzied kisses Jaskier pressed to his mouth. He dragged his tongue on Jaskier's. Dragged his teeth across Jaskier's lip, and imagined sinking his teeth into Jaskier's pale, smooth skin, imagined Jaskier arching with the pleasure of it.

Imagined sinking his cock inside Jaskier's perfect arse. Feeling those powerful inner muscles tighten around him, and basking in Jaskier's moans of his name, again and again.

Gods, he wanted this tall, beautiful, vibrant man with the face and voice of a fallen angel. He _wanted_.

He licked into Jaskier's mouth one more time. Kissed him hard and deep to last through their hasty journey out of this bar. Tore his mouth away from Jaskier's with the greatest reluctance, just enough that their quivering, wet lips still grazed. Jaskier's whimper _hurt_ him.

"Jaskier," he rasped, panting. "Not here. Not sharing you."

He was more aroused than he could ever recall in his life. He didn't give a fuck that everyone would see his hard cock in his jeans when he stood up and walked out. All he gave a flying fuck about was Jaskier's reply.

_You're the one, Jaskier._

_You're the one I've been looking for, even when I hadn't known you yet._

Jaskier surged forward and stole another searing kiss from him. He let him, smiling into it, accepting the answer for what it was.

"My place is within walking distance from here." Jaskier withdrew, so slowly, so hesitantly, just enough that they could gaze each other in the eye. "Shall we?"

Geralt caressed the warm length of Jaskier's neck. Slid his hand down the firm length of Jaskier's arm, then reached for his leather jacket on the table.

He stood up.

He truly did not give a flying fucking fuck about everyone else gawking at his cock. He felt like he was floating. He felt powerful. He felt _good_.

He felt like the luckiest fucker in the universe, when Jaskier intertwined their fingers and smiled at him so exultantly like that.

The hunt was over.

He had found what and who he needed.

Now—as they strode out of the bar hand in hand, down the streets past other pedestrians, pressing more and more frantic kisses to each other's lips—the oldest, most pleasurable dance in the world was just beginning for them.


	3. In Jaskier's Apartment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we ... _go_. 👨❤️💋👨
> 
>   
> 

Geralt had never been kissed so many times in one night. Jaskier shivered so deliciously against him. Made the most licentious noises into his mouth, like an animal in heat. If he was a lethal big cat, so was Jaskier, lean muscles coiled in anticipation under all that pale skin.

He was greedy for this audacious, beautiful man in ways that frightened yet gratified him. He'd lusted after other people before, women and men, but never with this intensity, this _need_ that he would commit terrible things to have them.

"Geralt," Jaskier panted, "Fuck me."

Jaskier had left the bedside lamps on in his bedroom. Geralt blessed their golden light for letting him witness the carnal sight of Jaskier stripping off that red jacket and that mesh tank top rolling up Jaskier's undulating torso.

Geralt had never fucked a man so hairy before. He wanted to run his fingers through those dark curls. Scratch his fingernails down that heaving chest. Pinch and bite those pink nipples until they were red and raw, marked by his teeth, monuments to his _claim_.

He trapped Jaskier's upright arms in the tank top above his head. Yanked Jaskier tight to his boiling hot body. Clamped his arms around Jaskier's bare torso and crushed his lips to the pliant man's yet again. Bit Jaskier's plump lower lip. Savored the harsh, joyous gasp he was gifted when he bit it again, harder, then suckled on its juiciness.

Jaskier writhed in his embrace. Threw back that head of dark hair and offered his throat like a divine dish, flushed with arousal Geralt felt deep into his every vibrating cell. He nipped urgently down that long, pale column. Clawed at the smooth, soft skin of Jaskier's back. Bent down to bury his face in that downy chest hair, breathing hot and heavy through an open mouth. Dragged his face across to tongue a jutting nipple. Suck it between his lips. Capture it between his teeth, and bite down until Jaskier cried out, clutching at his shoulders.

When Jaskier clawed at his shoulders, he stood upright and raised his arms for Jaskier to frantically strip off his white tank top.

"Geralt," Jaskier rasped. "Please, fuck me."

He could feel how hard Jaskier's cock was in those red, snug trousers. Feel the patch of warm wetness.

He angled his head and pressed a fast, firm kiss to Jaskier's quivering lips. Their lips made a slick sound when they pulled apart.

Then he gripped Jaskier's bare shoulders.

And spun the wide-eyed man around to face the white wall.

Jaskier's hands audibly smacked flat on it. Jaskier let out another harsh gasp when Geralt grasped his nape and pushed his head against the wall, cheek pressed to it. A shiver of pleasure shook Jaskier's body now bent low at the hips. If that hadn't been a sign of Jaskier's consent, the moan of his name undoubtedly was.

"Geralt, yes. _Yes._ "

Geralt dragged his hand down Jaskier's sloped spine, reveling in its fluid curve. His hand halted on the waistband of Jaskier's trousers.

"Keep your hands on the wall," he growled.

He ignored how his voice quavered. It wasn't with weakness but with choking lust. He was so fucking hard in his jeans that his cock was steel. His chest rose and fell with breaths that trembled. His fingers burned where they touched Jaskier's bare skin.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't close to enough.

He took that one step to press his cock to Jaskier's arse.

He tucked it between those ample cheeks. It didn't matter that layers of cloth still separated them. The initial contact was enough to make Jaskier whimper, to make a rumbling growl emanate from Geralt's chest.

Yeah, he'd been right: Jaskier's arse was indeed created for _him_.

He pressed his cock harder to Jaskier's arse as he reached down with both hands to unfasten Jaskier's trousers. Fuck, what a plump, _perfect_ arse it was, flaunted so with that fine arch of a back now marked with long pink lines.

He was certain Jaskier's cock was as perfect.

He popped the waistband's round button. Pulled the metal zip down, down, down.

And he grinned, his fangs glinting in the warm light of the bedroom.

He wasn't the only man who'd gone commando tonight.

He wrapped his hand around an already dripping, hard cock, gliding it down to—

"No, Geralt, don't!"

He froze, eyes wide, breath hitched in his throat. Jaskier's right hand wasn't on the wall anymore. It'd grabbed his hand around Jaskier's cock, restraining it. Holding it in place.

"Sorry, I—" Jaskier's swallow was audible. "I don't want to—come yet."

Geralt stared at Jaskier's attractive profile against the wall. At those long, mascara-thick lashes fluttering. At the flush of arousal across Jaskier's lightly stubbled cheek. At those full lips so soft and wet.

"If you keep touching me, I'll—I'll come. Don't want to yet—" Jaskier's trembling hand tightened around his. "Want you inside me—when I do."

Geralt had thought it impossible for his cock to swell even more, to _throb_ even more with desire for this alluring, amazing man—but it did. For several blazing seconds, he couldn't speak at all.

"Okay," he rasped. "Okay, Jaskier."

He slipped his hand away from Jaskier's groin after Jaskier released it. He gripped the trousers' waistband at the hips with both hands, and he had to take a big step back, to suck in a searing breath, teetering on the edge like he also was.

He couldn't touch Jaskier's cock, but he could imagine it in his mind: giving it tugs eased by pre-come, the skin sliding with a twist of his wrist. Its head glistening, begging to be sucked.

Later.

Later, after giving Jaskier what they'd both longed and lusted for all night.

Geralt pulled down those red trousers to the knees. They were so snug that they peeled like a second skin, like the ripe skin of a succulent fruit. Jaskier's erratic breaths seethed Geralt's blood.

Jaskier's bare buttocks were the most luscious fruits he'd laid eyes on by far.

He took a shaky step back. Then another, and another, just so he could rejoice in the real, undeniable vision of an almost nude Jaskier propped against the wall with both hands, bent forward so compliantly, so seductively—while still wearing those sexy, black stiletto boots.

He memorized every captivating, living inch of Jaskier's body on breathtaking display. He wanted to remember everything about tonight. Everything he'd done and would do with Jaskier. Everything about Jaskier.

He needed the memories to warm him in the cold, lonely nights ahead.

Tonight was all he had with Jaskier.

"Got your seal of approval, then?"

Jaskier was still bent forward, but not so low that he could gaze over his shoulder at Geralt with those crinkled, kohl-lined eyes. Geralt might have said something.

But his gaze flitted to that perfect arse.

With a sensual swivel of hips, Jaskier spread his thighs as much as his trousers allowed. Arched his back and presented those ample cheeks—and between them, Geralt now saw the enticing, glistening hole between them.

Glistening from lube.

Already stretched open.

Ready for him.

Jaskier raised a shapely eyebrow in wordless challenge. Gave him a devilish smirk that threatened to break him.

_What are you going to do now, big boy?_

He pressed his tremoring lips together. Oh, it wouldn't do to smile now. He knew exactly what to do to wipe that smirk off.

Locking his heavy-lidded gaze with Jaskier's, he reached down for the button of his jeans. Popped it open. Dragged the zip down nice and slow, reining in his sigh of relief as his steel-hard cock was freed at last. It sprang up at a near vertical angle, curving towards his belly.

He bit his lip as Jaskier's eyes widened and that devilish smirk transmuted into that unguarded expression of awe, of wonder. He risked tugging his cock once, from leaking tip to hilt, coating it with pre-come.

He memorized Jaskier's quavery moan too, with his own gravelly one.

He took out a large condom from his jeans' back pocket. Ripped its package open with his fangs. Rolled the condom on, then sauntered back to Jaskier, pushing his jeans down to mid-thigh.

Jaskier's head and cheek were pressed to the wall again. Jaskier scratched at its surface.

"If you keep teasing me a-and not _fuck me_ already, I—"

Jaskier's hoarse, hollow threat choked into a gasp when Geralt seized his hips. Geralt rocked against Jaskier's arse, gazing down at his cock sliding between those generous cheeks. A trail of pre-come shone on pale skin.

Jaskier canted his hips up even more, exposing that glistening, ready hole for him. He delighted in the shudders of taut anticipation wracking Jaskier's body in his hands. He was shuddering too, already losing himself in Jaskier's pain and pleasure.

"Geralt," Jaskier panted.

The torment in Jaskier's mellifluous voice, the desperate grinding of Jaskier's arse on his cock, finally splintered him open and delivered mercy to them both.

With one hand, he guided his cock to Jaskier's opening, and began thrusting in. He groaned at how tight Jaskier was. So fucking tight despite the lube, and he had to wonder if Jaskier really had stretched himself. But the lean, pale body in his grip, his care, welcomed him, pulling him in inch by thick inch. He tried his best to be slow and careful—but he was helpless hearing Jaskier's moans.

Jaskier was moaning his name, over and over, mouth hanging open, scratching at the wall as if his cock was this side of _too much_. He was big. He was enormous, he knew, and he didn't want to hurt Jaskier, never—

"Geralt, give me—" Jaskier reached back and grabbed at his hip. "Give—all—all of you— _give me_ —"

He was utterly helpless but to yield to Jaskier's gasped command. He sank in, faster, deeper, lips parting in a soundless cry, until he was flush against the swell of Jaskier's arse.

It'd been so long since he'd had sex, much less superb sex. So long, that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had sex _this_ incredible, when he hadn't begun to _move_ yet.

Perhaps that was because he'd never had before Jaskier.

He'd never met anyone like Jaskier before.

He probably never would again.

"Jaskier," he rasped tremulously.

He rested against Jaskier's arse for a drawn-out moment, his skin burning, _burning_ where it pressed to Jaskier's. He breathed in the mingled scent of their fresh sweat and pre-come. He held back from reaching down for Jaskier's cock.

Jaskier didn't want to come. Not yet.

Jaskier wanted this to _last_.

"Fuck, Jaskier, you feel so good," he growled, and Jaskier squeezed _tight_ around him and let out a loud, fractured moan.

He also moaned as Jaskier showed off his suppleness, fervently swiveling those narrow hips around and back on his rigid cock. He was helpless, really, but to pull out half-way then slam into Jaskier with a snarl. He felt more than saw Jaskier's long, spread legs go taut and shaky. He saw the impact of his first brutal thrust quake up Jaskier's sloped spine to Jaskier's neck arching back in a shrill cry.

It was a cry replete with bliss.

"Oh," Jaskier moaned, scrabbling at the wall. "More, please, Geralt—more, more, more!"

And their dance, inevitable and irrevocable, began its frenzied spiral towards its rapturous end.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier's bare flanks. Pulled out to the tip. Speared Jaskier on his cock to the hilt without another thought, and did it again and again, jerking Jaskier back with every vigorous thrust. Jaskier cried out with each one. Pushed himself back with trembling hands on the wall, and arched back in a severe line towards Geralt.

Geralt bent down to meet him, to let Jaskier wind a sinewy arm around his neck and clutch him close. It should have been an awkward position for them, but Geralt stretched his arm and pressed a hand to the wall, mirroring Jaskier's other extended arm.

They held each other up.

They raised each other up high.

Geralt had enough mind to wrap his other arm around Jaskier's heaving chest, to not touch Jaskier's cock, to use the grip as leverage to thrust harder into Jaskier. Each thrust jarred Jaskier and fucked a melodious moan out of the delirious man. He nuzzled Jaskier's sweaty temple. Panted in tandem with his thrusts, with the fierce tremors of Jaskier's hot, tight body that rocked them both.

"Fuck," Geralt breathed. "Jaskier, I—"

He bit his lower lip hard enough that it almost bled. He swallowed down the damning words.

Damning for his bloody heart that was already steeped in foolish hope, that it would even _think_ of those three words to declare to Jaskier.

"I—I'm going to— _Geralt_ —"

Jaskier let go of his neck. Pressed both hands to the wall again—and Geralt dipped his head and _bit_ him.

His teeth were sunk into the salty, smooth skin of Jaskier's shoulder before he could control himself. It was deep, but not deep enough to break skin. His bite was savage and so were his hard, rapid thrusts gone erratic but his embrace around Jaskier was tender and reverent.

He didn't know which of these things made Jaskier come untouched. Perhaps it was a combination—falling apart from Geralt fucking him like he wanted to split him apart and remake him, from Geralt devouring him within and without.

From Geralt's embrace saying what words couldn't.

Geralt was lost when Jaskier clenched so hard around him while coming. His orgasm built and built in his fingers and toes, rushing through his taut limbs to coil in his lower belly, the base of his bowed spine. It exploded out of him as copious pulses deep inside Jaskier's heat. He felt each pulse down to the marrow of his bones, in his cock that jerked and spurted and filled the condom.

In that instant of absolute pleasure, a tiny part of his mind hated that there was something between him and Jaskier while they came. He wanted nothing between them.

He still wanted Jaskier, even as he rode out those last few volatile thrusts with sinuous twists of his hips.

"Ti amo," Jaskier was whispering to him. "Je t'aime, mon magnifique dieu sur terre."

His addled mind couldn't tell what languages those were, or what those words meant. But they sounded sweet. They sounded like the resolute murmurings of his foolish heart that still thundered in his heaving chest.

He was still deep inside Jaskier as he stumbled backwards, arms wrapped around Jaskier's chest and waist. Luckily, the bed was a few feet behind him. He sat down hard on its side, catching his breath, hugging Jaskier tight to him, pressing kisses to Jaskier's bitten shoulder. Jaskier continued to whisper sweet, mysterious words to him, caressing his head.

He wanted Jaskier, more than ever, in all ways.

He wanted to stay.

His eyes fluttered shut at the tender kiss Jaskier pressed to his temple, over his loose hair. He tightened his arms even more around Jaskier's hairy, lean torso, and Jaskier didn't protest, and he kissed the fragile skin over the hammering pulse in Jaskier's long, lovely neck.

"You didn't bite my neck too hard," Jaskier murmured, "did you?"

Geralt's eyes blinked open. He leaned back to scrutinize the side of Jaskier's neck, and saw pink marks dotting its pale column. He hugged Jaskier to him again. Gently kissed one of those pink marks in apology.

"I, uhm—just nipped it. But there are some—marks."

His chest swelled with primal satisfaction at the knowledge that he'd left visible vestiges of himself upon Jaskier's skin. Vestiges that would stay with Jaskier long after he was gone.

Would Jaskier look at them in the mirror? Would Jaskier touch them with those slender fingers? Touch the bite mark in his shoulder, and think about how he'd received it?

Would Jaskier think about him?

He kissed another pink mark. Sucked on it, just a little, enough to make Jaskier squirm on his gradually softening cock.

Jaskier was so beautiful to behold and hold. So flexible, tilting back that head of dark, tousled hair to offer more of his neck to Geralt.

Jaskier let out a low, contented moan, then murmured, "It's all right, darling."

Geralt basked in the warmth of that term of endearment. No one had ever called him that before Jaskier. He liked it. Liked that Jaskier called him that, with that affectionate tone, as if Jaskier—cared for him.

He nestled his face in the side of Jaskier's neck. Memorized the beat of Jaskier's heart, and ignored the pain in his chest.

"I'll just—" Jaskier rubbed the lengths of Geralt's forearms with both hands, making their fine hair stand in delight. "Wear something with a high collar to work tomorrow."

Geralt loosened the arm around Jaskier's chest to card his fingers through Jaskier's abundant chest hair.

"Big day?"

Geralt was curious, so curious, about Jaskier's occupation. He had to bite his tongue to not bluntly ask what it was: he didn't have the right to do so. But his imagination conjured an image of Jaskier strutting on a stage, dressed as fabulously as he'd been tonight.

A singer, maybe. Or an entertainer.

A glowing star on earth, dazzling everyone in his transcendental radiance.

Geralt swallowed down a groan when Jaskier chuckled—and clenched hard and rhythmically around his cock. Fuck, he was beginning to harden again.

"You could say that."

He felt Jaskier's buttocks and thighs tense. Realized Jaskier intended to stand up and needed help to do so, and gripped Jaskier's waist with both hands to lift him up.

The long, lewd moan Jaskier let out as Geralt's cock slipped out of him shot a quake of lust through Geralt.

Fuck, he was fully hard again—but he didn't know if Jaskier was up for another round. If Jaskier would rather he took care of himself. Or worse, looked at him with disdain for expecting more, scarred and freakish-looking as he was.

He thanked the gods for the dim, warm lighting here.

"Oops!"

Jaskier's trousers were still binding him at the knees. On those stiletto boots, after Geralt fucked him so hard, his long legs had gone wobbly. Eyes crinkled, Geralt maintained his grip on those narrow hips until Jaskier was standing upright.

"Careful," he growled.

Jaskier gave him a soft, sweet chuckle that he yearned to always hear. Tottering on those stilettos, Jaskier turned around to face him, resting those slender hands on his shoulders.

His cock jerked. His amber eyes widened with pleasure at seeing Jaskier's cock for the first time.

Of course it was as perfect as that ample, pert arse: it was of average size and girth but an appealing shape, smooth other than a discernible vein meandering its flaccid length. It glistened slick in a way that made Geralt's mouth water all over again.

_Beautiful. So beautiful._

Before Geralt could speak, Jaskier knelt, pushing those red trousers to the shins and—unzipping those stiletto boots at the sides. Convenient.

Geralt took the opportunity to remove the used condom from his cock, holding it at its base, rolling it up his erect, slippery length. It'd slid partway up his cock when Jaskier had stood up. He tied it, then glanced around for a bin to chuck it—

"Geralt, why didn't you—"

He glanced down at Jaskier with a slight frown. Jaskier was still kneeling in front of him, between his legs. Resting a hand on his thigh. Jaskier was frowning too, with—self-deprecation?

"I'm so sorry," Jaskier said, caressing his thigh still half encased in his jeans. "I didn't know you hadn't come yet."

Geralt blinked. Then his frown vanished, and his expression softened.

"Jaskier," he murmured, "I did come."

Jaskier also blinked, several times. Geralt had no idea how those kohl-lined eyes could look so sexy yet so guileless.

"But—you're—"

They glanced down in unison at his fully erect cock. He felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment.

"Uhm," he stammered. "I—I have a short, uh—"

He squeezed his eyes shut. Pressed his lips tight in frustration. Waved his hands around as he tried to recall the correct words. What was it called, again?

"Refractory period?"

He peeled open his eyes at Jaskier's considerate tone. Jaskier gazed up at him with a fond smile. He lowered his eyes to stare at Jaskier's flushed neck. He nodded, biting his lower lip. His cheeks were fire-hot.

The last time he had sex, almost four years ago, the same thing had occurred: he'd gotten hard within minutes of coming—and his one night stand had sneered at him.

_Ugh, really? You're an animal._

The glance of repugnance at the scars on his body, after the ceiling light was switched on, had sent him striding out the door. He'd driven aimlessly for hours afterwards, until the sun was rising, and his whole chest didn't hurt so much anymore.

He didn't want Jaskier to sneer at him that way. He didn't want that glance of repugnance from Jaskier, if the ceiling light was switched on.

He stared on at Jaskier's neck. At its pink marks.

"I'm—sorry," he rasped.

For several seconds that felt like eons, Jaskier was silent.

Then Jaskier reached down for his black boots. Began yanking at their laces.

His wide eyes snapped to Jaskier's face. Jaskier's lips had become a pale, thin line. A furrow marked the skin between those shapely eyebrows. Those blue eyes blazed bright.

Jaskier was—angry.

At him?

He sat stunned while Jaskier removed his boots. While Jaskier gripped the waistband of his jeans and pulled them the rest of the way down his legs. He watched his jeans soar through the air and out of sight. He glanced sharply at Jaskier when Jaskier snatched the condom from him. It also soared through the air and out of sight, hitting something that pinged like metal.

He sat stunned and baffled while he watched Jaskier kick off those stiletto boots, then those red trousers. If—if Jaskier was angry at him and wished him gone, why were they both naked?

The last thing he anticipated was Jaskier shoving him backwards onto the bed with both hands on his shoulders. With a grunt of shock, he landed hard on the bed swathed in navy sheets, his arms spread, his long, white hair fanning out from his head.

"Jaskier, what—why are we—"

Jaskier leapt onto him and straddled his hips. His mind frizzled into white noise.

"Geralt."

Geralt's eyes widened again, with more surprise. With renewed lust.

"Geralt," Jaskier growled once more, with a voice gone even sexier than he could have imagined. "Look at me. Listen."

Geralt obeyed. He gazed up into those fiery blue eyes staring down at him. He gasped inaudibly as Jaskier pressed those slender, strong hands flat on his chest, holding him down.

"Never, ever apologize again," Jaskier growled, teeth bared, fingers scratching, "for being perfect."

The pain that reverberated through Geralt's swelling chest now was exquisite. It was the good sort. The sort that made his eyes sting, that made him as weightless as a feather, that made him feel _alive_.

"If I ever find the fucker who made you think you've to _apologize_ for—" Jaskier sucked in an irate breath. Bared his teeth like a feral wolf. "For being _you_ , I'll—" Jaskier curled his fingers in the grey curls of Geralt's chest hair. "I'll shove my stiletto heels through their eyeballs into their puny brain. Stomp their head to a bloody pulp."

A violent frisson of lust and something far more powerful surged through Geralt like an earthquake. His cock, as hard as it could already be, jerked and dripped pre-come between Jaskier's spread legs.

"Do you hear me, Geralt?"

"Yes," he rasped, grasping Jaskier's robust thighs.

"Listen." Jaskier lowered that ample arse with a swivel of hips. Ground down on the length of Geralt's cock, sliding it between those round cheeks. "Before you, I hadn't had sex for almost two years. I'm clean."

Geralt's fingers dug into Jaskier's flesh. He stared up, enthralled.

"Four years. And I tested clean after that."

Their hot, ragged breaths resounded through the room. They stared into each other's wide, gleaming eyes, vibrating from the inside out with renewed anticipation and exhilaration.

Jaskier ground down hard on Geralt's cock, then again.

Jaskier's cock wasn't hard.

Geralt's brow creased. He glided his hand up Jaskier's thigh to gently cup the sensitive, soft genitals surrounded by dark curls. Jaskier hummed with pleasure, grinding his hips down again.

"Not so young anymore," Jaskier said with a bittersweet smile. "But don't worry." Jaskier angled his head to one side like an adorable puppy. Raised both eyebrows. "Do you know what a dry orgasm is?"

Geralt slowly shook his head once, never taking his eyes off Jaskier's beautiful face.

"Well." A thrilled, feral grin lit it up. "I do."

Geralt's hands trembled with rocketing lust, with overwhelming need. They reached up for Jaskier's shoulders and yanked him down for a fast, forceful kiss, then another, another. Every desperate catch and crush of their wet lips sang with their palpable desire for each other.

He wrapped his arms around Jaskier's shoulders and waist. Flipped them over in one swift move, still kissing, their tongues sliding together, their frayed breaths scorching the air.

"Geralt," Jaskier moaned, raising those long, nimble legs to clamp them around his waist. "Yes."

There was nothing between them now.

This time, Geralt would push inside Jaskier's scorching, tight heat, and come inside him—and _feel_ him.

The fierce, resonant snarl that burst from between Geralt's bared, gritted teeth should have frightened Jaskier. It frightened _him_.

But Jaskier simply moaned his name again, consent writ in every letter. Consent was writ in Jaskier letting him wrench those pale, sinewy arms up and over Jaskier's head, in Jaskier arching up towards him with wide eyes and an euphoric cry.

"Yes, yes," Jaskier warbled. "Fuck me."

He clamped his hands around Jaskier's wrists. Pressed them down on the navy sheets above Jaskier's head.

Jaskier practically convulsed from head to hips, his hands clawing at the air, the muscles of his arms going taut and delineated in the golden light of the bedside lamps.

Geralt snarled again, in entreaty to himself to not hurt Jaskier, to give only pleasure. In entreaty to the gods that he could have one more night with Jaskier. Just one more, if not forever.

_I want you. I need you._

He sank once more into the welcoming heat of Jaskier's body. He pushed his unrelenting cock deeper and deeper in to the hilt, staring into Jaskier's round, kohl-lined eyes. Glorying in Jaskier's shattered moan that rose in volume with each conquering inch, in Jaskier's heels on his lower back urging him on, in the fire-hot _tightness_.

A band of tears welled and clung to Jaskier's thick lashes. They made those mesmerizing eyes sparkle, and it was with pleasure, with _triumph_. That triumph manifested in the quivery grin that bloomed across Jaskier's flushed face as Geralt rocked into him with ardent thrusts.

"Geralt," Jaskier moaned, eyelids flickering at a particularly deep thrust. "Good, Geralt—you feel so good—"

Geralt was lost again in carnal sensation, in Jaskier. Lost in the riveting play of emotions across Jaskier's pretty features, in more fluttering sweeps of those lashes. In the fractured, elated noises that poured from Jaskier's open mouth.

Geralt tightened his hands around Jaskier's wrists. He glanced down, and saw that Jaskier's cock was gradually hardening again. He rolled his hips in slower, gentler thrusts.

"Aniolku," he growled, "Come on."

Jaskier tossed his head on the navy sheets, letting out an acute sob.

"Please," Jaskier gasped, "faster—harder—"

"Come on." Geralt maintained pace, caressing the base of Jaskier's hands with his thumbs. "Come with me, Jaskier."

He wasn't sure what he was demanding of Jaskier. He wasn't sure if he was demanding Jaskier to get hard again and come simultaneously with him—or go home with him.

He wasn't sure why the latter choice didn't scare him at all.

"Please, Geralt—h-harder!"

His wide eyes tracked the tears that rolled down Jaskier's temples. Tracked the visible bounce of Jaskier's throat in a long swallow, the parting of those pink, swollen lips in another gasp, the wet tongue darting out to lick that lower lip he could still taste.

Who was he to deny this audacious, beautiful fallen angel who never forgot his name?

He released Jaskier's wrists. Went down on his elbows to slide his forearms under Jaskier's upper back and grip Jaskier's taut shoulders.

The new position brought their flushed faces so much closer.

Bowed Jaskier's body even more.

Shoved Geralt's cock even deeper inside him.

And Geralt gave him exactly what he asked for so rousingly.

With newfound leverage, he pounded into Jaskier at a merciless rate, their searing skin slapping hard with each inward thrust. He snarled loud and ferocious. Jaskier's mouth fell open again, in a soundless scream. Jaskier's hands scrabbled wildly and seized a blue pillow. Their knuckles whitened as Jaskier clenched his fingers in it above his head, sweat sticking his dark hair to his forehead.

"Geralt—Geralt, _Geralt_ —"

Jaskier moaned his name as if it was a magical, life-saving chant. His brutal thrusts jerked Jaskier back and forth on the bed, and this close, he could see how blown Jaskier's pupils were by pure pleasure, how they drank his face in like an elixir.

This close, he could feel that Jaskier's cock wasn't fully hard yet.

But Jaskier came anyway.

He slammed in—then stayed deep inside while Jaskier threw his head back, convulsed and cried out. He gritted his teeth and rode out the rhythmic clenches of Jaskier's inner muscles around his cock, staring down at Jaskier's face slack in ecstasy.

The dry orgasm passed quickly.

Jaskier's cock had lost none of its gained hardness.

Jaskier was chuckling, grinning smugly up at him.

"Oh, _ooh_ , that was good," Jaskier groaned.

That provocative glint of challenge was back in those crinkled, shiny eyes. Geralt narrowed his eyes in return, lips tremoring.

_Can you make me come again, big boy? Make me spurt all over myself?_

Geralt was in awe of how they could already read each other so well, like they were pages of the same book in an intimate language developed just for the two of them. He felt as if they were becoming one being. He felt as if destiny had ordained them to be together, at the very beginning of time itself.

So he trusted his instincts. He trusted Jaskier to stop him if he didn't like what he was about to do.

He slid his right arm higher up to Jaskier's head.

And grabbed Jaskier's hair.

He fisted his hand in the dark, thick locks at the back of Jaskier's head. Tugged them hard to bare Jaskier's neck and the thumping pulse in it.

Jaskier's reaction was immediate: he clenched _hard_ around Geralt's cock. Let go of the pillow to clutch and scratch at his shoulders.

And there, between their tense bellies, Jaskier's cock fully hardened and seeped.

Geralt resumed thrusting, deep, hard and steady. Jaskier was chuckling again, and it was a honeyed sound that tremored Geralt's lips into a proud smile, that tightened his fingers in Jaskier's hair.

They were both giving in to the inevitable rush towards another orgasm now. Geralt lowered his head until their foreheads and noses touched. His long hair curtained their heads. They gazed into each other's eyes, engulfed in the same devastating flood of feelings and sensations.

A continuous growl rumbled from Geralt's chest. It grew louder at Jaskier running shaky fingers through his hair.

"Gods, you have the sexiest voice ever," Jaskier said, voice husky and tremulous. "Say my name again. Please, Geralt."

He pressed his forehead harder to Jaskier's.

" _Jaskier_ ," he proclaimed, propelling into it everything he felt for Jaskier, every word he couldn't say but ached to.

For all his moaning and crying out before, Jaskier came without a sound save for ragged, heaving breaths that scalded Geralt's lips. Came hard and prolonged.

Geralt released his hair. Stroked his arm and shoulder, fucking him through each shuddering spurt of come that anointed their heaving bellies. Geralt kissed those pink, plump lips. Kissed them, then soundlessly rasped _I love you_ into that lightly stubbled, reddened cheek.

Then he came deep inside Jaskier, filling him up with pulses of hot, thick stripes. Leaving more vestiges of himself to be remembered, to become an unforgettable part of Jaskier. Grinning and laughing together with Jaskier—battered and spent, and so fucking _glad_ to be alive.

Geralt didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay a little longer, fuck Jaskier again, even after their third energetic bout in the shower stall in the en suite bathroom.

Gods, that had been amazing too: Jaskier laughing softly into his mouth while he carried him into the bathroom. Keeping those long, sturdy legs wrapped around his waist and those sinewy arms around his shoulders, kissing and kissing him, begging so prettily with dulcet tones.

_Come inside me again, Geralt. Need more. Need you._

Jaskier had grabbed the bottle of lube from the open cabinet. Left the bathroom door wide open, and the warm light from the bedroom had cascaded into the shower stall while Geralt squeezed liberal amounts of lube between those round arse cheeks and pushed it inside Jaskier's ever tight hole with two fingers. Jaskier had to have been sore.

But all Geralt had heard were moans and whimpers of utter pleasure while he massaged Jaskier's prostate. Massaged his come deeper inside. Jaskier had pressed himself on the tiled wall. Arched that elegant back and tilted that marvelous arse up, grinding it on his obdurate cock.

He'd been helpless, completely helpless, but to plunge his cock inside Jaskier's glorious heat. The stall was small enough that he could brace his upper back against the opposite wall. Grip Jaskier's hips with both hands, and watch his cock be swallowed up over and over and over. Watch those ample arse cheeks ripple from each hard impact that drove Jaskier up onto the balls of his feet.

Jaskier had moaned non-stop, high and low, moaned wordlessly, then Geralt's name. Scrabbled at the tiled wall, then with one hand at Geralt's secure hand on his hip.

Their fingers had intertwined on Jaskier's hip. Their knuckles had whitened from their intense clutch on each other.

Then Geralt had leaned forward. Reached up for Jaskier's head with his other hand. Slipped his hand around to press his large palm over Jaskier's moaning mouth.

And Jaskier had sunk those straight, pearly teeth into his skin. Marking him. Leaving a vestige of himself that Geralt would remember long after tonight, for life.

He'd pulled Jaskier to him as he came, arching Jaskier back to lick and suck on his bite mark on Jaskier's shoulder. Jaskier had come at the same time, letting out a high-pitched cry, tugging at Geralt's loose hair, grinding down _hard_ on Geralt's pulsing cock as if he wanted it deep inside him forever.

They'd laughed together in the aftermath, again. Washed each other, held each other up.

Jaskier's legs had been so wobbly that Geralt had to hug him while he washed himself with soap and hot, soothing water raining down on them. Geralt hadn't been so stable himself, feeling as if the floor beneath him was gone. As if he was about to fall from a cliff at the coast.

The giddy feeling had lingered while they'd dried themselves with towels and Jaskier had cleaned the waterproof makeup off his eyes at the sink.

It was still there, sitting like a chilled rock in his chest, as Jaskier pushed away the bed's top sheet and climbed onto the bed.

He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay a little longer with Jaskier.

He wanted to stay for eternity.

He stood nude near the side of the bed, quietly watching Jaskier unfurl a golden wool blanket that had been tucked under a second blue pillow. Jaskier was still nude as well. Jaskier was sitting upright on the bed, back facing the wooden headboard. His dark, medium-length hair was fluffy after being washed and dried. Geralt yearned to run his fingers through it. To smell it. To nuzzle it.

Jaskier's eyes, still so alluring without makeup, were lowered.

"Uhm." Jaskier sucked in an audible breath. Fidgeted with his fingers on his lap. "Geralt."

Geralt swallowed hard, then rasped, "Jaskier."

Jaskier's long, soft eyelashes fluttered. Then those big blue eyes gazed up at Geralt, gleaming with banked hope under furrowed eyebrows.

"Can you—" Jaskier's pink-marked neck undulated in an equally hard swallow. "Hold me, until I'm asleep. Okay?"

Geralt drew in a breath that hitched in his lungs. Blinked stinging eyes. The floor was beneath his bare feet—but it didn't matter. He'd already fallen fast and hard. He'd already fallen for Jaskier the moment their wide eyes had met across the dim, vast expanse of The White Wolf.

Silently, he approached the bed. Climbed onto it. Settled himself on his side, on one elbow, and memorized the sight of Jaskier lying down on the bed beside him. Memorized the graceful curve of Jaskier's spine, the pleasing shape of Jaskier's shoulder merging into the swell of a strong upper arm. The rise and fall of that broad back.

For a while more, just a little, he could pretend tonight was simply the first of twenty-thousand more.

He slid across the bed, his breath trapped in his aching chest. He molded his clean, dry body to Jaskier's from head to toes. Wrapped an arm around Jaskier's torso, and folded the other close to his own body. Tucked his flaccid cock between firm cheeks. Nuzzled that dark hair.

Neither of them said anything with their lips. Jaskier's trembling hand that grasped his—that slotted their fingers together on a hairy chest, over a heavy, beating heart—spoke for them both.

In the cozy dimness of one bedside lamp, Geralt heard Jaskier's ragged inhalation. Heard Jaskier's lips part with a wet sound, as if Jaskier was about to say something.

But the loaded hush reigned on over them. Jaskier's fingers tightened around his, and he tightened his own in return. In his mind, he counted down the minutes to the moment he was going to die.

At the fourth minute, Jaskier's hand began to loosen.

At the seventh, Jaskier's body began to relax and slump in his embrace.

At the ninth, Jaskier's back rose and fell against his chest with deep, regular breaths.

Jaskier was asleep. Jaskier was no longer aware he was there.

Jaskier wouldn't know when he left.

"Aniolku," he whispered.

Jaskier slumbered on, warm hand limp in Geralt's.

If he lingered for a few minutes more—drew Jaskier a little tighter to his chest, smelled Jaskier's hair, and kissed that vulnerable nape—no one would know except him.

He was not the same man who'd climbed onto this bed as he slithered out of it. He allowed himself one last touch, a carding of his fingers through Jaskier's tousled hair, as a farewell gift. Jaskier slumbered on under that gold, wool blanket Geralt pulled up to his shoulders.

Jaskier: the audacious, beautiful, perfect angel a scarred, ugly animal like him could not possibly deserve to have.

He stood at the side of the bed with his back turned towards Jaskier for a long while. Sucked in a tattered breath, then a steadier one, then a deep, forceful one.

He had to go home now. He had to be there before dawn, so he could wake Ciri up and cook breakfast for her and for Eskel, her favorite babysitter. He owed his old friend so much.

He had to go now.

He staggered away from the bed, and ignored the feeling that he was leaving home.

He found his tank top and jeans on the floor next to the dressing table. He averted his eyes from the rectangular mirror above it—he didn't need it to know precisely where all his scars were on his body.

His lips quirked up upon seeing a teal sweater draped on a chair's back. He couldn't imagine anyone but Jaskier wearing such an eye-catching color. Whatever Jaskier's job was, he would surely stand out from the crowd in such a sweater.

Not that he would ever behold the charming vision.

His tiny smile faded. He quickly donned his tank top and jeans. Snatched up his black boots on his path to the bedroom door—and didn't look back.

He couldn't afford to.

He would climb right back into that bed and mold himself to Jaskier from head to toes until they were one, and forget Jaskier wasn't his home.

He left the bedroom door ajar. He tugged on his boots and laced them up under the cold glare of the kitchen's ceiling light. The open-plan design of the apartment extended the illumination up to the front door, where he found his leather jacket hanging from a hook on the wall next to the door.

He quietly unhooked it.

After they'd entered the apartment, Jaskier had taken the jacket from him with a smile. Held it close to that lean, lovely body and said, _I'll just hang this up, all right?_

Jaskier had giggled while he hugged and kissed him from behind, clutching onto the jacket with one hand. Then they'd stumbled to the bedroom, kissing so hard, so much, and groping each other, so desperate for each other and—

He yanked his leather jacket on. Unlocked and swung open the front door. Stepped through it, and stood with his back to it, sensing its inevitable swing back into its solid, wooden frame.

He stuffed his shaking fists into the side pockets of his leather jacket. He stared at the wall across the corridor. Steeled himself for the inevitable sound—but still jumped at the click of the door shutting. It was as ear-splitting as a gunshot.

It _hurt_ as much as one did.

The agony this time wasn't in the scarred meat of his left shoulder: it was farther down in his chest, all the way to his core.

He ignored it. He had to.

He was no stranger to pretending he wasn't in pain. He had a lifetime of practice to become a master at it.

He breathed.

He stretched open his shaky fists in the side pockets of his jacket.

And the fingers of his right hand encountered—something.

He froze in place. Blinked, then slowly glanced down as he pulled out a rectangular piece of paper from his jacket's right side pocket.

What the hell?

It was slightly crumpled. It was a plain white piece of paper with cursive handwriting in black ink.

He flattened the paper with his thumb and fingers, then stared down at the single name on it. At the short string of numbers below it.

He breathed. His throat constricted.

Oh, this was why Jaskier had taken his jacket from him.

He stroked the pad of his thumb across Jaskier's name. He could see Jaskier in his mind, sitting at that dressing table in that rich red outfit before heading out to the bar, writing this very note with an optimistic smirk. Writing it with the hope that before the sun rose again, he would meet someone worthy of being bestowed with his name, his number.

Someone he wanted to see again. Someone he wanted to know better.

Geralt stroked the pad of his quivering thumb across Jaskier's name once more.

Jaskier had given him the choice to make the next move: he could throw this piece of paper away, and ensure Jaskier eventually found someone else, someone truly worthy of him. Or he could—

He stared down at the paper.

Folded it into two.

Breathed, and breathed, and gripped it.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, aniolku."

The precious note returned to its zipped refuge in his jacket's side pocket.

He'd already fallen hard and fast off that cliff. Already struck the primal waves below and sunk into them, into those exquisite blues that took his breath away.

Perhaps it wasn't so bad to drown instead of fight. Perhaps it was the fighting that was killing him bit by bit each day, when he should let go—and set himself free.

_Baby steps, Geralt du Haute-Bellegarde. Baby steps for mature amends._

He didn't look back as he trudged away. He didn't need to look back.

He needed to look forward.

If the gods were merciful, he would meet Jaskier again. In the light of day, under an afternoon sun.

If the gods were truly merciful, he would meet Jaskier again in the light of day—and Jaskier would ask him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aniolku is a Polish term of endearment that means "angel".
> 
> And there are at least 4 more chapters planned! You can read details for 3 of them [here](https://twitter.com/giddytf2/status/1364657112433840130).
> 
> The next chapter will be from Jaskier's perspective, in a short scene beginning from Geralt leaving his bedroom.


	4. In Jaskier's Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the hottest one night stand he's ever had leaves his bedroom, his life, Jaskier--a kindergarten teacher with a big day tomorrow--tries to accept he'll never see Geralt again.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> (Just ignore the other people in the gif: Jaskier's expression and the lighting are dang near perfect for what he looks like curled up in bed under the dim illumination of a bedside lamp.)

Jaskier had kept his eyes shut until he heard Geralt's heavy treads outside the bedroom. He'd peeled them open to slits, but stayed motionless under the blanket, waiting for the inevitable click of the door.

But Geralt hadn't shut it. He would see later that it'd been left ajar.

Geralt hadn't shut it—and so the torture of listening to Geralt leaving him stretched for minutes more: Geralt dropping his boots on the floor to wear and lace them up. Geralt trudging away, farther and farther from the bedroom.

He'd listened so hard for the front door's click.

He hadn't heard it.

And for seconds as long as centuries, he'd hoped that it meant Geralt hadn't left. That Geralt was standing before it, unable to reach for its knob, unable to open and stride through it.

He'd hoped, with every beat in his chest, that Geralt would come back.

He should have known better. He really should have.

Hope always hurt him in the end.

The pain in his chest had grown and grown, until it devoured everything inside him, bursting out of his mouth as a harsh, ragged gasp that seemed to echo in his head, throughout the dim room.

Now here he was, curled up on his side like the pathetic puppy he was, trembling, trying to stave off the burning wetness behind his eyes, the spiking ache in his skull and teeth, the congestion high up in his nose.

Here he was, as alone and unwanted as Valdo said he would be.

_You're a pretty fuck, Jaskier. But there are so many other prettier fucks._

Valdo had sneered down at him. Gripped his jaw. Dug those callused fingers into its hinges until he whimpered—and he'd begged for more, for Valdo to stay, to give him another chance to prove himself.

Valdo had slammed the door on the way out of his life.

For almost two years after that, he'd constantly felt dirty. Constantly took showers and washed his mouth and changed the bedsheets. It hadn't mattered that no one else slept in the bed, that he hadn't had sex since Valdo.

He'd felt dirty, and worthless, and untouchable—until tonight.

Until he'd opened his wardrobe and laid eyes on the red, scaly outfit he'd had tailored years ago, for a day when he would strut onto a stage and sing his soul out and finally be loved. It’d been in pristine condition. It’d been unworn. It had called to him to dress himself in it tonight.

Valdo never had the privilege of seeing him in it, much less touch him in it. Valdo never would.

But Geralt had.

Geralt, the most perfect lover he'd ever had. The most gentle, gorgeous giant of a man he'd ever know.

Geralt—whom he would never see again.

He tried to fight back the hot welling of his eyes, the throbbing ache in his skull. Tried to grit his teeth to fight back the tremors of his lower jaw. Pressed his lips tight to stop them quivering.

He curled up tighter under the blanket. He tried to breathe, to cling on to the present. He stared at the hazy blob that was the bedside lamp.

But all he saw was Geralt, standing nude and tall at the side of the bed, waiting for the moment to say goodbye to him. Waiting until he was done unfurling the blanket to do so. Geralt hadn't wanted to get back into the bed with him, he was certain of that. Geralt wouldn't have done it if he hadn't asked—and why _would_ Geralt have wanted to?

He was only worthwhile until he couldn't satisfy anymore. He was never good enough.

He was always left behind.

He was glad to be alone now as his eyes spilled hot down the bridge of his nose and temple, and his face crumpled. More tears flowed when he scrunched his eyes shut and pressed his palms to them. He rocked a little from side to side, drawing his knees up—but he hurt so much.

He was certain Geralt would throw away his phone number. He was just a fucking one night stand, and Geralt wasn't a pathetic _fool_ who fell in love with someone at first sight and still _hoped_ for a happily ever after like in the books, after all the abuse at Valdo's hands.

His stupid, stubborn heart still hoped.

He still hoped.

He nestled his aching, streaked face into the pillow beneath his head. He clenched his fingers in the pillow. His shoulders quaked, and he smothered his sobs—and he _hated_ his heart for colluding with his traitorous mind.

His eyes spilled and spilled, but all he saw was Geralt, so gorgeous and breathtaking, clothed even in that sexy leather jacket. Standing in the corridor with that broad, muscular back to the front door. Gripping the white paper bearing his name and number.

Staring down at it.

Stroking a thumb over the black, cursive letters of his name, as if it was precious.

Folding the paper.

And slipping it back into a side pocket, and zipping the pocket up.

Because Geralt wanted to see him again. To know him better.

It was an exquisite dream, too good to be true.

It was an exquisite dream he wanted to come true.

He didn't know how long he cried his eyes out. He couldn't recall the last time he'd cried this hard, until his whole chest and even his belly were as sore as his swollen eyes. Crying wrung him out in a different way from sex.

With a wince, he uncurled his cramped limbs and rolled onto his back, sprawled on the bed. The blanket tangled around his hips and legs. He stared sightlessly up at the ceiling with inflamed eyes no longer welling up.

He blew out a long, audible breath. His chest hitched once.

He ignored the shakiness of his hand as he reached up for his left shoulder.

The shoulder Geralt had bitten.

He traced the indentations Geralt's teeth had left with his fingertips. Geralt hadn't broken skin—but a great part of him wished he had.

It would scar eventually, then.

And he would have had Geralt's permanent mark on his flesh. He would have had Geralt's permanent _claim_ on him.

He reached higher. Ran his hand down the length of his pink-marked neck. He had to wear a high-collared shirt under his sweater tomorrow. A tie to secure the collar. He couldn't risk his colleagues, much less his very young students, seeing the marks. But he wished they could be permanent too. He wished the bruises on his wrists could be permanent too, in the shape of Geralt's fingers.

He wished he could feel Geralt deep inside him forever.

He tugged the blanket up and swathed himself in it from chin to toes. He wasn't cold. He could smell Geralt on the blanket, if he tugged it up to his nose. He could also smell Geralt on the pillow.

His arse was so sore.

He was going to feel that delicious soreness for _days_.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't close to enough, not when it meant feeling empty and incomplete for the rest of his existence.

He blew out another long breath. His chest hitched again, and he blinked lingering moisture out of his eyes. He gently traced Geralt's bite mark once more.

It was all right. He was going to be all right. He had to be, for the children who depended on him to teach them so many important things in their young lives needed him to be strong. To face the cold, cruel world with a smile and a bounce, even as he wanted to cry some more.

A hoarse chuckle tumbled from his lips that made a valiant attempt to curve up. What else was one to do after the tears ran out?

"It'd be just my luck, wouldn't it," he rasped. "Geralt—father to one of my students."

Whether he’d rasped that bane, that _wish_ at the gods, or the universe, he didn't know.

He didn't know what he'd do if the gods or the universe listened to him for once, and made that a reality too.

He widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows up at the ceiling in a mock scandalized expression.

"Ugh, with a young supermodel wife in tow too, I bet," he muttered.

Seconds later, he shut his sore eyes and scoffed at himself, his lips twisted in a sardonic smile. Yeah, that was more like it: laugh at the pain, and move on, even with the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Nothing new there.

His sardonic smile faded away. He sighed.

In its place was a tender smile, one laden with a bittersweet sting. Somewhere out there, Geralt was on his way home, or was perhaps already home. Perhaps Geralt lived alone, or with someone who loved him. Someone who didn't know about his jaunt to The White Wolf, or approved.

He couldn't imagine Geralt being a cheater. He couldn't imagine Geralt being anything other than the gentle, gorgeous, perfect giant of a man he'd had the privilege to know.

He slowly rolled over to nestle his cheek and nose in the pillow. In Geralt's fresh, soothing scent.

"Good night, Geralt," he whispered.

If the gods were merciful and listened to him, he would meet Geralt again.

If the gods were merciful and listened to his heart, he would meet Geralt again soon—and Geralt would stay, and deem him good enough, and never leave him behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Jaskier and Geralt ~~spend a sex bonanza of a weekend alone at Geralt's house. 😈🍌🍑~~ meet at Geralt's house for a sex bonanza of a weekend alone ... but first, they have an important conversation about the night they met and their feelings for each other.


	5. At Geralt's House (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After finding each other again, Geralt and Jaskier meet at Geralt's house to spend the weekend alone together. They finally talk about the night they'd met and their feelings for each other.
> 
> Soundtrack: [Road to Perdition theme](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=I03ECvApSeE)
> 
>   
> 

Ciri liked a variety of sandwiches, and Geralt was skilled at making all of them. Yeah, there were—mishaps at the beginning of his sandwich-making journey, and one time he almost set the kitchen on fire when the toaster caught fire and he hurled a cloth on it instead of water. _But_ , their old, durable house was still standing, and they were both fine, and Ciri loved her teddy bear-shaped, pesto and cream sandwiches.

Ciri loved all the sandwiches he made for her.

Ciri loved him.

Against all the cruel odds in this cold world, someone loved him for him.

His lips quirked up as he pressed the flower-shaped cookie cutter down onto the roast beef and mayo sandwich on the plate in front of him. She'd developed a fondness for flowers since starting kindergarten on Monday, and he knew why.

_Today Mr. Pancakes gave everyone a flower!_

She'd smiled so bright and wide while waving the golden dandelion in the air for him to see yesterday. He'd smiled too. Knelt down and touched the fragile petals with a fingertip.

_It's pretty just like you, babusiu._

He'd smiled long after she'd skipped back to the living room. He knew why Jaskier had given all his students dandelions in bloom: Jaskier loved dandelions. Jaskier had loved all his students at first sight, and would lay down his life for them.

And maybe, one day, Jaskier might love him that much too.

It was such an exquisite dream.

It was an exquisite dream he could see coming true, for Jaskier was coming over in mere hours to see him. To talk to him. To spend time with him. To _touch_ him.

Jaskier wanted him to stay.

He laid the cut sandwich in the plastic container next to the plate. His lips curled up.

"Oh. This is serious, Geralt."

Eskel was already here, standing next to him, leaning sideways against the kitchen counter with one hand resting on its granite surface. Eskel was squinting at his face with amber eyes so similar to his, expression deadpan.

Geralt didn't respond. He refused to take the bait Eskel was dangling. He knew exactly what the arsehole was going to do and say next.

He felt Eskel's narrowed gaze drop to his t-shirt. To the small graphic design on its chest.

"Geralt," Eskel said, exaggeratedly solemn, "you are wearing _color_."

Geralt's curved lips tremored. He pressed them into a thin line, then raised his head and shot a wide-eyed glower at Eskel. He was aware of how—terrifying he could appear when he glared at someone: it was why he never, ever glared at his little girl.

But Eskel was fair game.

Eskel, the _arsehole_ , wasn't affected in the least by his most vicious glares. Ever. He didn't know whether to hate or love his best friend for it.

"Doth thine eyes deceive me?" Eskel dramatically widened his eyes. Made a show of leaning down to stare and point at the design. "Do I see a patch of _teal_ in the vast midst of gloomy, frightening black?!"

Geralt's lower jaw tremored hard along with his lips. He shoved a smirking Eskel away with one hand on a broad shoulder.

"Bugger off!" he whispered, not wanting Ciri in the living room to hear him cuss. He leveled an even fiercer glower at Eskel, and said, "I've worn color before!"

Eskel's smirk eased into that utterly deadpan expression again. Eskel made a show of crossing muscular arms over a meaty chest.

"Geralt," he asserted, "the pink Hello Kitty crop top does not count."

Geralt pressed the cookie cutter into the second roast beef and mayo sandwich much harder than necessary.

"Yes, it does! It was—" He made a face. Gestured at his own chest with both hands. " _Pink!_ "

Eskel's scarred lips tremored hard.

"Does _not_ count! Ciri made you wear it!"

Geralt couldn't deny that. It was true that he'd worn it for the first time at Ciri's behest, and Eskel and Lambert had laughed their arses off when he'd shuffled into the living room for Ciri's appraisal.

None of them needed to know he still wore it from time to time to sleep. It was _comfortable_. It was soft and nice and it kept his chest warm but didn't make him feel too hot. Nobody could see its neon pink in the dark anyway.

"And it wouldn't have happened," he retorted, glaring full-blast at Eskel, "if _you_ hadn't bought it and showed it to her!"

Eskel burst into a gleeful cackle and slapped the countertop. Geralt tried his best to maintain his glare, but his damn lips expanded into a genuine smile. His eyes crinkled. He snorted with amusement and no small amount of affection for his brother in all the ways that counted.

When their mirth subsided, as Geralt set the second cut sandwich into the container then sealed it, Eskel said, "This is serious, isn't it."

There was no mockery in Eskel's familiar, gruff voice now, nor in his benign expression as Eskel gazed at him.

Geralt averted his eyes. Cleared his throat. Pressed down on the plastic cover despite it being as secure as it got.

He parted his lips.

Considered telling a little lie, to not show a single breach in his armor. To stave off that life-changing moment when he acknowledged how much Jaskier meant to him.

But what was the point of that—when his heart had already done so the instant he and Jaskier had exchanged names?

He cleared his throat again.

"Yes," he rasped, gripping Ciri's food container with both hands, staring down at it.

He waited for Eskel to chide him for being silly. For Eskel to tell him how foolish he was for _feeling_ so much for a man he'd spent only one night with, a man he'd only met one more time the next day.

But, that one night had been—nothing short of miraculous. Jaskier had taken his breath away and dazzled him, over and over.

Jaskier had gazed at him as if he could stand in the light of all days and not burn to paltry ashes, as if he would _shine_ instead.

Jaskier had thought about him from the moment he'd laid those large blue eyes upon him.

"He must be one hell of a guy. For you to smile like that."

Geralt couldn't deny that either.

"In all the decades we've known each other in our _distinguished_ lives," Eskel said, leaning back against the kitchen counter, "since we were eight—you've never invited someone home."

Geralt couldn't deny _that_ either, but he opened his mouth. Eskel raised a forefinger and wagged it once in warning at him.

"Nuh-uh, before you use Ciri as an excuse—" Eskel gestured at himself with both hands, eyebrows arching. "Hello! I'm always available for babysitting! I had to beg you to let me cuddle her when she was a baby!" Those familiar amber eyes shot a mock glower at him even as they twinkled. "Hogging her all to yourself."

Geralt let out a noiseless sigh as he sauntered around Eskel to put the food container into the bag holding her other essentials for the weekend. His lips curled up again.

_Everyone_ had to beg him for cuddle time with Ciri when she was a baby. Who could blame him for cuddling her all the time?

She'd been chubby and rosy-cheeked and adorable beyond words by the time she was eight months old and home with him for two. She had a cheerful belly laugh. She'd smiled at everything with joy and wonder. She'd smiled at _him_ with joy and wonder, and touched his bristly cheek with gentle fingers, and felt not an iota of fear or repugnance towards him, not even after she saw his pure white hair and freakish amber eyes and ugly scars.

And when she'd gazed into his eyes with such bright, light ones, and said _Dadda_ for the very first time—he had not been afraid to let her see him without his armor, under the sun. He'd smiled at her as she touched the streaks down his cheeks and wiped them dry.

She was his baby.

She was his baby who Jaskier loved too.

"Look at you."

Geralt zipped the bag and hefted it off the counter. He glanced at Eskel who was—grinning from ear to ear like a dolt at him. He narrowed his eyes and growled, "What?"

Eskel shook his head from side to side, still grinning.

"You don't fool me for a second, you gigantic marshmallow."

Geralt shoved the brimming bag into Eskel's chest. Eskel let out a low grunt but didn't make a fuss. Eskel had the decency to not point out that his ferocious glare was totally ruined by his tremoring, smiling lips.

That doting smile bloomed anyway when Ciri dashed out of the living room, saw them and shrieked, "CANDY FLOSS!"

Geralt turned his head to Eskel and growled, low enough Ciri couldn't hear him, "Do _not_ give her the candy floss!"

Eskel looked at him with that deadpan expression.

"Okay. I won't give her the candy floss." Eskel waited a beat, then casually said, "But a box of Ferrero Rocher is okay, right?"

Geralt glared wide-eyed at him, and snarled, "The first rule of the Ferrero Rocher Incident is: you do not talk about the Ferrero Rocher Incident."

Eskel pressed those scarred lips extra tight, then patted Geralt's shoulder. They both remembered the Ferrero Rocher Incident, and how much it'd _stunk_ to high heaven. Who knew chocolate could be so delicious going in a toddler's mouth and so _foul_ coming out the other end?!

"Okay, kiddo! Let me unlock the car first, all right?"

Geralt's doting smile returned as he stepped out onto the paved driveway and watched Ciri bouncing on her feet next to Eskel. She was so excited to go to the city fair later with Eskel, Lambert, and Lambert's girlfriend. She'd been upset that he wasn't joining them, until he told her last night that this weekend was his very important "me time". As young as she was, she understood the concept of him needing time to himself and to have activities that didn't involve her, and he was proud of her.

She understood that he wasn't strong all the time—and that it was okay to not be strong all the time.

He knelt on the driveway and sat on his heels.

"Hey," he gently called to his little girl.

Ciri instantly swiveled around and glanced at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. He raised an eyebrow and set his features in a mock stern expression.

"Aren't you forgetting something, hm?"

Ciri let out a bell-like giggle that threatened to crack his expression with a grin. She darted back to him without a second thought, and flung herself into his embrace. She wrapped those little arms around his thick neck. Rested that precious head of ashen-grey hair on his firm shoulder, and held him in one persevering piece with her immeasurable strength.

"I love you, Daddy."

It didn't matter how many times Ciri said those invaluable words. Every time she said them to him, they were as astounding as the very first time. They were as powerful, hitting him in the chest like a sledgehammer, sending that stupid, stubborn thing in it straight up to his throat to choke him. Up to his eyes to sting them and blur his sight.

He shut his eyes. Tightened his brawny arms around his little girl, and cupped the back of her delicate head.

"I love you, babusiu," he rasped.

The morning sun shone down upon him. Eskel watched them with that benign expression, waiting patiently by the car, carrying the bag.

None of them said anything more until Ciri was secure in the front passenger seat and Eskel was behind the wheel.

"Happy Me-Time, Daddy!" Ciri squealed through the lowered window.

Eskel smirked and waggled dark, thick eyebrows at Geralt.

"Happy Me-Time, _Daddy_ ," he drawled.

Geralt would have flipped the bird at the berk if not for Ciri watching them both. Instead, with a badly curbed smile, he smacked the roof of the car once, then sauntered back to the front door where he watched Eskel reverse out of the driveway.

He trusted Eskel with his life.

He trusted Eskel whole-heartedly with his first gift from destiny.

"Oh, yeah," he heard Eskel say to Ciri as the car maneuvered onto the street. "Lil' Bleater and Scorpion miss you too!"

When Ciri energetically waved in farewell at him, he waved back, giving her a tender smile. He waited until Eskel's car was out of sight before going in. He shut the front door, then sauntered to the living room and sat on the beige leather sofa. The house seemed colder and vaster without Ciri around. Emptier. It was just a building without her. Just walls and a roof. It wasn't home without her.

But—in a while, just a while from now—the house was going to be warm and cozy again. It was going to be filled with the presence of a tall, beautiful man with the face, body, and voice of a fallen angel. A man he'd missed from the moment he left him in that apartment near The White Wolf.

"Jaskier," he murmured.

The precious name immersed itself into the walls of his old, durable house, of his equally old, durable heart. It was a name curling across a piece of paper harbored in his leather jacket's side pocket. A name he'd seen on his phone's screen every day. A name he'd whispered to himself in the dimness of his bedroom behind a locked door, in the aftermath of yet another fantasy and the roll of pleasure through his whole body—

His phone, in the side pocket of his jeans, blared with a message notification.

He jolted on the sofa. After sucking in a quick breath, he pulled out his phone and unlocked it. Stared down at its screen, at the private chat he'd opened and its latest messages.

Jaskier: on my way ☺️❤️🚙

Jaskier: 10 min

Oh, he'd been wrong about needing Jaskier to be here to warm him up inside out. He was already warm inside and out just reading the first message. Alone in the living room, he let an elated smile blossom across his face. He touched the screen over the generic avatar next to Jaskier's name at the top of the chat.

Soon, he would have a photo for Jaskier.

Soon, Jaskier would be here, with him again.

_I'm so glad to see you again. To touch you. To hold you in my arms, and nuzzle your face, and breathe you._

_I'm so glad I found you again, aniolku._

_I'm so happy._

He carefully tapped on his phone screen to reply to Jaskier.

Geralt: Ok

The next ten minutes were the longest of his life, with the exception of him waiting for baby Ciri to be handed to him one last time so he could take her home. He paced the floor in front of the sofa. He sucked in long, deliberate breaths that didn't lessen the tension in him.

Should he change into a different t-shirt? Different jeans? Should he wear the red t-shirt he'd bought the day before instead of this black one? But teal was Jaskier's favorite color, and he couldn't find a teal t-shirt that fitted his bulk, but Jaskier had worn red that night—

His phone blared with another message notification.

He whipped it out of his pocket. Unlocked and glanced at Jaskier's latest message.

Jaskier: I'm outside 🥰

A torrent of thoughts sped through Geralt's mind in a second: Jaskier was in the driveway right now. Jaskier was _here_. Jaskier didn't use the car horn because they'd agreed to not alerting the neighbors to his visit, just in case.

He hated that Jaskier's visit had to be a secret. That _Jaskier_ had to be a secret, and that he couldn't even reveal Jaskier's identity in any way to Eskel or Lambert. All Eskel knew was that he was meeting the same man he'd met at The White Wolf and spent the night with afterwards. It might already be too much information.

But that was a concern for another day.

He couldn't sense the floor beneath his feet as he strode to the front door. He felt like he was floating nine feet high in the air. Like he was a cloud, illumined by a sunbeam, a stranger to lightning, thunder, and darkness.

He turned the metal knob with a trembling hand. Swung the door open, then stepped into the doorway, his chest swelling with more warmth. Strands of his hair—tied in its customary half-up, half-down style—brushed his bare neck. His amber eyes crinkled. His cheeks ached, and it took him the longest time to realize it was from his euphoric grin as he stared at Jaskier climbing out of a teal-colored supermini car.

Of course Jaskier's car was teal-colored.

Of course Jaskier looked so damn beautiful in that tight, olive t-shirt and tight blue jeans and red high-top sneakers, under the morning sun worshipping that crown of dark, thick hair.

"Jaskier," he rasped, stepping onto the driveway.

He was mere feet apart from Jaskier who stood next to the driver's door and stared back at him with gleaming blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and a soft smile. Mere steps separated them.

But they couldn't risk the neighbors seeing them hug, much less kiss. They had to go inside first.

"I, uhm, I brought some food." Jaskier was opening the back passenger door and bending down to retrieve something from the backseat. "Fried chicken and pizza."

Geralt sucked in yet another long, deliberate breath. Restrained himself from lunging at Jaskier and hauling him close.

He calmly walked over to Jaskier's car. Calmly took the three boxes of pizza from Jaskier, and congratulated himself on not dropping them to spread Jaskier nude on the hood of _his_ car and shock the living daylights out of the Nowaks on the left and the Neumans on the right.

"I know I'm here much earlier than we'd planned," Jaskier said, just loud enough for Geralt to hear.

They were walking towards the open front door now. Walking through it now.

"But—I thought, I was ready and—why waste more time, right?"

They were calmly walking to the kitchen. They were very calmly walking into the kitchen. Laying down the boxes of fried chicken and pizzas in their plastic bags on the countertop.

"So, yeah, here I am, and—" Jaskier was not so calmly fidgeting with the handles of the plastic bags. Not looking at him. "Here we are."

Geralt slowly turned to face Jaskier. Mere feet of space separated them now. Mere feet that he could cross in three steps.

"Jaskier," he said, husky, not so steady.

Jaskier's babbling petered into a hush that tautened between them.

Slowly, smoothly, Jaskier turned to face him.

He stared into those wide, brilliant eyes the color of the pellucid sky beyond the kitchen windows. His hands trembled with anticipation, longing, and lust at his sides. He stood still, so still, as Jaskier took a step towards him, then another.

Jaskier glanced down at his t-shirt.

At the teal-colored graphic design on the center of his chest.

Pale, slender fingers slowly reached up to touch it. To trace its simple shape.

He felt those fingertips like fire scorching his skin under the thin cotton material, razing him down to the marrow of his bones. His hands clenched into fists. He shivered as Jaskier slowly raised another slender hand and pressed them flat to his chest. One of them was resting over his hammering heart.

He wondered if Jaskier could feel it under his palm.

He wondered if Jaskier already knew he owned it.

Jaskier skimmed those warm, nimble-fingered hands up and down his rising and falling chest. Skimmed them along the breadth of his shoulders tense with happiness, with hope, so much hope.

Jaskier's pink, plump lips were curved up in that soft smile.

Jaskier's eyes were glistening.

"You're here," Jaskier rasped, blinking hard. "You're really—here."

A thick band of moisture welled up along those long, thick eyelashes, even as Jaskier's smile grew and quivered with happiness, with hope, so much _hope_ that flooded Geralt's crinkled eyes hot and stinging too.

He caught a glimpse of Jaskier's face crumpling. He caught Jaskier in his arms, squeezing his eyes shut when Jaskier stood on tiptoes, flung sinewy arms around his neck and pressed a smooth, warm cheek to his stubbly one.

Jaskier didn't make a fuss when he tightened his clasp. He could feel Jaskier's ribs protest against his trembling arms that tightened and tightened, unable and unwilling to let go. He said nothing and neither did Jaskier. He rocked them from side to side. He buried his face in the side of Jaskier's long, pale neck, and breathed in.

Jaskier smelled so fresh, so pleasing—like citrus and cocoa, like cherry blossoms showering down in a spectacular, snow-white hail.

Jaskier smelled like home.

Geralt was home once more.

He felt Jaskier's chest judder against his, heard Jaskier's breath hitch. He breathed on. He stood under the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and he did not burn to paltry ashes, even as he held a shining, transcendental star close to him.

He was home. He was alive.

He was alive once more.

Jaskier was the first to loosen their embrace only they could break. He forced his arms to loosen as well, to let his second gift from destiny take a small step back.

"Jaskier," he rasped, high enough to reach beyond the stars, to touch heaven.

He already was, with his hands around Jaskier's slim waist, with Jaskier's hands on his clothed biceps.

Jaskier blinked a few times. Those pretty, blue eyes glistened less, but were no less mesmerizing.

"I wanted to ask you to stay," Jaskier said with that mellifluous voice gone husky.

Geralt swallowed hard. Stroked Jaskier's flanks with his thumbs.

"I wanted to stay," he replied.

Jaskier's lips curled up in that soft, sweet smile that rendered the sun above into a mere spark.

"I wanted to see you in the morning, when I opened my eyes again."

Geralt slowly pulled Jaskier to him, until their relaxed, warm bodies were pressed together from chest to knees.

"I wanted to be there," Geralt rasped, "to see you waking up in the sunshine." He touched the tip of his nose to Jaskier's. Wrapped his arms around Jaskier's waist. "I wanted us to meet here—so I would never have to leave."

He felt rather than saw Jaskier's throat jounce hard.

He could see Jaskier lying upon those navy sheets, under that gold wool blanket. He could see the sun peeking through a gap in the curtains to kiss a straight path across Jaskier's long legs slack from slumber.

Jaskier, stretching those legs, that hairy, lean body with a moan.

Jaskier, fluttering those lovely lashes to reveal glazed eyes.

Jaskier, gazing at him with those eyes—beautiful face softening with recognition, with affection, and smiling so very tenderly at him.

_Jaskier._

"I wanted to _see_ you," Jaskier whispered, joining their foreheads.

Geralt felt Jaskier's right hand slide down his arm. Felt a compassionate touch on his forearm.

On the distinct, jagged scar blighting its muscly length.

Geralt shut his eyes. Tried not to flinch, not to regret wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt instead of a long-sleeved one. He'd chosen a short-sleeved one for good reasons: he was tired of being scared. He was tired of running away.

"I do, too," he whispered, eyes opening to half-mast. "But I think you'll—" He swallowed past the choking lump in his throat. "I'm not so—satisfactory in the light."

Jaskier caressed his forearm, his scar that was the gift from another boy at the orphanage who'd attacked him with a broken bottle a lifetime ago.

"Do you know why scars form, Geralt?"

Jaskier leaned back so they could look each other in the eye. Geralt shook his head slowly. Yeah, he understood the very basic concept of physical wounds healing over to stop the bleeding, to prevent infection and possible death. But he could tell that wasn't what Jaskier was talking about.

He waited quietly while Jaskier continued to caress his arm, to gaze at him.

"So many people look at a scar and see only what's on the surface," Jaskier murmured. "They only see something ugly, instead of asking themselves why the scar is there, and what its owner had to endure to live with it for the rest of their lives."

Geralt was hypnotized, silent.

"They don't think about the miracle that is a wound mending itself, even after the worst assaults. They don't think about how strong the person bearing such wounds and the pain of their healing must be. How _strong_ their soul is, to refuse to be crushed by an unforgiving world."

Geralt stared into Jaskier's compassionate eyes, and felt his own sting.

"Do you know why scars form, Geralt?" Jaskier rasped, sliding both hands down to grasp his. "Because you refuse to lay down and die. Because you're strong, and ever gorgeous in your determination to go on."

Jaskier's eyebrows arched up. His plump lips jutted out in a tiny, playful pout.

"And if you don't believe me that scars can be so beautiful—" The pout transformed into an impish yet sensual smile. "I've been picking at your bite mark on my shoulder. I'm hoping it'll scar."

Geralt could've made a saucy quip in response. He could've grabbed Jaskier's face and kissed him and kissed him—but he didn't. He couldn't.

He stared on at Jaskier with crinkled eyes stinging hot again. He could see them twenty years in the future from now, sitting side by side. Perhaps on a boulder, gazing out from a mountaintop at a magnificent, sunlit vista that unrolled for miles and miles into the distant horizon, after a mild morning of languid hiking.

Perhaps Jaskier would glance at him with loving eyes. Ask him if he wanted to head to the coast. Get away for a while, for a little longer.

And he would turn his head to gaze at Jaskier—and he would say yes, for he would go wherever Jaskier asked of him. He would stay with Jaskier, no matter how many years, how many _decades_ passed.

Eternity was still too short a time.

And for all that he'd hated destiny meddling with his life in the past, he loved it for giving Ciri to him. For giving Jaskier to him, and him to Jaskier.

"Oh, darling," Jaskier murmured.

Geralt let him tug him into another breathtaking hug with sinewy arms around his torso. He wrapped his arms tight around Jaskier's shoulders. He pressed his dry cheek to Jaskier's temple, and he stared down at the colorful blobs that were the chairs slotted into the kitchen island.

He and Eskel had sat on those chairs two months ago, sipping a bottle of beer each. Ciri had already been tucked into bed hours ago and was fast asleep. He could see, in his memories, Eskel in one of those chairs now, in that usual red shirt with its gold-black designs, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Eskel had taken a swig of cold beer. Set the bottle down.

_Am I an ugly, unlovable freak, Geralt?_

His head had snapped up in shock at Eskel's nonchalant question. He'd stared at Eskel's familiar, scarred face, into those kind, crinkled eyes he would know anywhere, and of course he'd adamantly said no.

_So why do you think you are?_

Geralt had no answer for that. He'd been so stunned by the unexpected question that he simply stared at Eskel, lips slightly parted.

_You wanna know what I think?_

Eskel had sat upright. Propped his elbow on the counter, and stared back at him with resolute, unblinking eyes.

_I think you're scared._ When Geralt had stayed silent, he said, _I think you're scared that there really is someone out there who'll love you just as you are. Hair, eyes, scars, and all. Someone who will take one look at you, and wanna spend the rest of their life with you._ The snap of Eskel's fingers in the homey kitchen had been deafening. _Just like that._

Geralt had still stayed silent. Stayed stunned and stationary, despite how casually Eskel was ripping apart his armor with mere words.

_Then you can't hide anymore. You can't run anymore._

His hands had been loose on his lap. His eyes had burned under the ceiling light just like they were right now while Jaskier hugged him and rocked him from side to side.

_Can't run from being hurt some more,_ Eskel had said, eyes so kind and discerning. _Can't run from living._

Eskel had been merciful enough to not expect a response from him. Maybe him snatching up his beer bottle and draining it dry in multiple swallows had been a telling response in itself.

Eskel hadn't been talking out his arse either: the man knew what pain was, what fear could do. Once upon a time, he'd been a temporary guardian for orphans. His last, and final, ward had been a young girl exploding with pure rage from a lifetime of being abused and abandoned. She'd brutally assaulted his face with a knife. Carved the right side up from forehead to chin.

Not once throughout the assault had Eskel attacked her in return.

All Geralt knew of the aftermath was that she'd been utterly guilt-ridden. Wrote Eskel a letter that he'd refused to read and handed to Geralt. Geralt had turned the stove on and burned it in front of Eskel.

On the driveway, after those beers, Eskel had grasped his upper arm with goodwill that had never waned.

_Life is pain, brother. But it's a whole lotta love too. More than all the pain that could ever be._

No, Geralt didn't want to be scared or to run anymore.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted to stay—and live.

"Why don't we eat a little first, hm?" Jaskier was caressing his upper arms. Rubbing their noses together. Smiling that soft, sweet smile that was for him alone. "We can talk more after that. Or we can—do other things."

His crinkled eyes were clear. His cheeks bunched in a small, tight-lipped smile that grew and grew, until it became a bright, beautiful thing that dawned in his golden eyes that had never been freakish. That were simply different.

"Tell me you got macaroni and cheese pizza," he said, his cheeks aching.

Jaskier let out an amused chuckle that immersed itself in the walls of Geralt's old, durable heart, and made itself at home too.

"Yes, I did! I _still_ can't believe it exists! How did you even know about it?"

They turned together to the counter and sorted through the food. Geralt stood behind Jaskier, his chest pressed to Jaskier's broad back, his white-haired head leaning against Jaskier's dark-haired one. He slid an arm around Jaskier's waist.

"Eskel told me about it. He's babysitting Ciri."

"That's nice of him. He must be a very good friend."

Geralt's smile softened, and he murmured, "He is."

He basked in Jaskier's soothing chatter about the other interesting pizzas and the delectable fried chicken he'd discovered in a humble restaurant near his apartment. He felt like that sun-illumined cloud again, soaring high. He felt like a glowing star that had reached heaven then traveled farther into the great unknown, shining the path for others to follow.

He was a star all along who'd found another star with whom to fly through the ever-expanding universe. Another star who saw him, and knew him.

Against all the cruel odds in this cold world, the gods had listened to him.

Against all the cruel, unfair odds in this ever-expanding, unpredictable universe—Jaskier also loved him for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: ~~The sex bonanza! 🍌🍑💦🔥~~ A fluffy conversation between the fellas about nicknames, obsessions, and where they go from here.


	6. At Geralt's House (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh-yep, I only learned that babusiu actually means "grandma" instead of "baby" after finishing the third chapter. That's what I get for grabbing the info off Google search without really checking it. 😂 Thing is, I like the nickname so much that I stuck with it--and came up with the following short update for Geralt to tell its backstory to Jaskier during brunch in Geralt's kitchen. They also talk about other nicknames, obsessions, and their developing relationship.
> 
> So here's more geraskier fluff!
> 
>   
>    
> 

Geralt had no idea how sexy someone could look while licking up melting strings of cheese until now. He stared unashamedly at Jaskier licking that plump lower lip yet again, at that pink, flexible tongue curling around a ball of soft cheese then drawing it into that hot mouth.

His own slice of pizza was forgotten in his grasp, held inches away from his parted lips. His other hand rested on the dining table's burnished surface, also forgotten.

From today on, he was going to buy Jaskier all the pizzas in the world with the thickest, most stringy—

"Geralt, what does babusiu mean?"

Geralt blinked hard. A string of warm cheese stretched its merry way down his slice of pizza to the plate below. He stared at Jaskier popping the last big bite into that hot, lovely mouth and chewing on it, cheeks puffed like a happy squirrel's.

"Hmmn?"

Jaskier's blue eyes crinkled when they glanced at his face. Jaskier covered tremoring lips for a moment with one hand, then lowered it.

"I've heard you call Ciri by that nickname: babusiu. What does it mean?" Jaskier's eyebrows arched up in curiosity. "Baby, perhaps?"

Geralt's cheeks heated up. He lowered his eyes and promptly stuffed his gob with the pizza slice in hand, taking his sweet time to chew and swallow it. Of all the questions from Jaskier, that was _not_ one he'd expected.

Jaskier wasn't letting him off the hook: Jaskier sighed. Leaned both elbows on the table and propped his chin on his hands, staring at him with big, bright eyes and a tiny smile. It was a little terrifying that Jaskier looked like Spongebob Squarepants.

It was more than a little terrifying he even knew what a Spongebob Squarepants was.

He supposed that was the price a parent paid for having a child besotted with a talking yellow sponge who lived under the sea in a pineapple.

He cleared his throat. Let his lips quirk up in a small smile at the memory of Ciri hopping in front of the TV and squealing with excitement.

Ciri.

His baby girl.

His little babusiu.

"Uhm." He licked his lips. Cleared his throat again. "It means—" He pressed his lips tight, then muttered, "Grandma."

Jaskier blinked once. When Geralt shrugged and pressed his lips tight again, Jaskier blinked a second time, harder.

"Babusiu means—grandma," Jaskier said, brow creased in bafflement.

"Yes."

Jaskier stared at him for a few seconds in silence, then said, "You call your five-year-old daughter a _grandma_."

Geralt pressed his tremoring lips extra tight. His traitorous amber eyes crinkled anyway. He pointed a thumb at his own chest and said, "In my defense, I wasn't the one who came up with the nickname!"

A smile of amusement blossomed across Jaskier's face. Jaskier lowered his forearms to the table and leaned forward.

"So who came up with it? It's—well, different!"

Geralt's mirth waned as the vivid memories of Ciri's first two years of life returned to the forefront of his mind. As a baby, she'd been so responsive to her environment here at home, touching things with her tiny, chubby hands, cooing and squealing. She'd always smiled at him. Smiled at everything, like the happiest baby in the universe would.

But as she grew older, and learned to crawl, then walk—he discovered that she wasn't as responsive as he, and everyone else, had thought.

"I think I'd told you before," he murmured, "that she'd been—sickly."

"You did."

Jaskier's expression had softened. Jaskier gazed at him with focused eyes, with full attention.

"She, uhm—" He sucked in a short breath. "I'd rather not go into the details now. But, before I adopted her, she'd been sickly and—no one knew exactly what it was." He stared down at the open boxes of pizza and fried chicken on the table. "No one had any idea how it'd affected her, until she was a little older. She—wouldn't respond to verbal communication."

Jaskier stayed silent, but Geralt didn't feel awkward, nor felt like apologizing. Jaskier was listening to every word.

Jaskier cared about Ciri too.

"Her hearing was fine. Doctors said everything physical was fine." Geralt rolled his shoulders. "But she just—never responded to anything anyone said to her. Not even me."

"But she's communicating well now."

Geralt's shoulders loosened at Jaskier's murmured truth.

"Yeah." Geralt shook his head. His smile returned, a little wider. "And it was all because of that nickname." He glanced at Jaskier who mirrored his benign smile. "She was, uhm, about two years old when it happened."

He sat up and reached into one of the cartons for a piece of fried chicken: a drumstick.

"Had a small family gathering here. Eskel was here, and Lambert who'd just come back from traveling. Vesemir, our dad—he adopted all three of us from the same orphanage—was also here." He took a bite out of the drumstick, then said, "We were in the living room. Eskel and Ciri were playing tea-time on the floor with her plushies." He bit his lower lip at the image of Eskel with that sparkling tiara perched on his head. "Vesemir, Lambert and I were on the sofa." He waved the drumstick about, brows furrowed. "I can't recall what we were talking about, but Lambert was—making fun of my white hair. Calling me a 'great-grandpa' who had potential to be a star in _geriatric porn!_ "

Jaskier slapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes scrunched.

Geralt's own shoulders began to shake with mirth. He prodded Jaskier's bare foot with his own under the table, and growled, "What? You _like_ that sort of porn?"

A boyish chuckle burst from Jaskier's mouth.

"S'not like he's wrong about you having porn star potential, is he?"

Geralt prodded harder at Jaskier's foot, a grin breaking across his flushed face. In retaliation, Jaskier stepped on both his feet, pressing them to the tiled floor.

Geralt let him.

" _Anyway_." Geralt took another bite of the drumstick. "Lambert tried having a go at Vesemir too." He lowered the drumstick to the plate and left it there. "But Vesemir really is ancient and when he started on how geriatric porn wasn't _that_ bad—" He made a face that made Jaskier smother another amused chuckle. "Lambert looked at the last person left in the room who had white hair too."

"Oh no," Jaskier said, smiling.

"Oh yeah. He looked at Ciri who was still playing tea-time with Eskel and he hollered, 'Babusiu!'"

Jaskier gasped. "And she responded!"

Geralt's grin returned in full force. "Yeah. Don't get him wrong, he said it in a light-hearted, singsong way." He shook his head once. "He never expected her to respond. None of us did. But she glanced at him! She _heard_ him."

Jaskier was grinning too. "That's wonderful."

"The thing is, she _could_ speak." He lowered his eyes. Swallowed hard. "When she was a baby, she called me Dadda." He shook his head again. "She could say a few words. But—I think that's why it was so—frustrating that she didn't respond. Until then."

"You must have been over the moon," Jaskier murmured.

Geralt raised his eyes to meet Jaskier's crinkled eyes.

"I called her babusiu too." His grin softened into a small smile. "And she got up and ran to me."

Under the table, Jaskier's soles gently rubbed the top of his feet. It was a nice feeling. A comforting feeling.

"Does she know what the nickname actually means?"

"No." He shrugged. "I've yet to tell her." He sighed, then murmured, "The doctors had no explanation for me. They just said maybe the word—triggered something in her mind. Or—she was simply ready to connect with other people. I don't know."

"You still call her that."

"Hmmn. I do. That's my obsession, not hers anymore."

Jaskier's eyebrows shot up a high forehead.

"That's an interesting choice of word: obsession."

Geralt picked up the drumstick from his plate and took a small bite of it.

"Ciri doesn't need that nickname anymore. But—I do." His lips curled in a bittersweet smile. "I need it."

Jaskier's soles continued to caress the top of his feet.

"Mm, need and obsession are two very different things."

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm." Jaskier pulled another slice of pizza out of a box. "You want to know what obsession is? Let me tell you about watermelon."

Geralt's eyebrows creased in a frown of utter confusion.

"Hmmn?"

Jaskier's shoulders quivered with mirth while he took a bite of pizza. Then he placed the slice on his plate, and said, "There's this lovely boy in my class who's obsessed with watermelon, yeah? I mean _obsessed!_ "

Jaskier's pretty blue eyes went round, and his pale, slender hands gestured dramatically in the air.

" _Everything_ he owns has to be watermelon! He has a pencil case shaped like a watermelon slice! He has watermelon-print clothes!" He made a face. "Okay, his socks are white." He made another face. "But the only reason they're white is because he likes how they look in his watermelon-print shoes."

Geralt shook his head, his frown replaced by a growing smile of amusement.

"It's wonderful, really: his pure _passion_ to _express_ himself via watermelon."

Geralt's smile expanded. The elasticity of Jaskier's beautiful face was mesmerizing.

"So, his parents did warn me about it before classes began, and I told them that as long as it didn't interfere with his education, his watermelon obsession was _just fine_."

"But it wasn't."

Jaskier let out a gust of a sigh, and Geralt's shoulders started to tremor.

"Gods, no. Like I said, Geralt, let me tell you what obsession truly looks like." Those slender hands gestured in the air again. "The day before, I gave my students a writing exercise. Just simple stuff." Jaskier shrugged. "Like, 'what is this man doing?' Or 'name this animal', or 'what is your favorite food?' Looking at pictures. Writing a few sentences."

Geralt nodded, lips pressed together.

" _So_ , everyone finished the exercise, and they all did a good job—including Ciri."

When Geralt nodded this time, it was with a soft, proud smile. Of course his little babusiu did well.

He gave Jaskier a look and said, "Except?"

"Except dear Mr. Watermelon." Jaskier let out another gust of a sigh. "I was marking the exercises in the staff room later, and I—"

Geralt's shoulders tremored harder even as he tried to maintain a straight face.

"Geralt, _every_ answer in his exercise was watermelon! Drawing of a horse: watermelon! Man washing car: watermelon! 'What is two plus two?': watermelon! 'What are your ears for?': _watermelon!_ "

Geralt cracked into hearty laughter at the image of Jaskier sitting in the teachers' staff room, staring down at the lovely boy's completed exercise, and doing his best to not laugh himself to tears.

"Oh my goodness," Jaskier squeaked, also laughing with Geralt. "He even—he—" He wiped at an eye with the bend of his wrist. "He even filled his _name_ as watermelon!"

They laughed for a while more, their cheeks and bellies aching in the best way, their feet nestled tight together on the floor between them. It was a nice feeling for Geralt. It was new. It was new and exquisite and something he'd never had before—and he hoped he would always have it.

"We aren't so different from children, are we?"

His murmured question resonated in the kitchen in the wake of their laughter. Jaskier gazed at him with that soft expression again.

Jaskier murmured, "Their obsessions pass, eventually. They always do."

"Hmmn." Geralt gazed back with heavy-lidded, warm eyes. "Perhaps you and I _are_ different from them, then. At least, in regards to—obsession."

Jaskier's cheeks reddened under his intense regard. Jaskier smiled coyly. Bowed that head of dark, thick hair and shook it from side to side once, smile widening.

Their hands were on the table now, inches away from each other's.

"Geralt," Jaskier said, voice so mellifluous and tender. "What does aniolku mean?"

Geralt's throat constricted to a pinhole. His eyes widened, and his toes curled within the refuge of Jaskier's feet cupping his. Oh—oh, he had _not_ expected that question either.

"You called me that a few times that night, and—uhm, you—whispered it before you—"

Jaskier sank pearly teeth into that plump lower lip. Stared at him with wide eyes as he stared back with equally wide ones, his lips parted in stunned silence.

He'd only once whispered it to Jaskier—when he'd held Jaskier in his arms and against his nude body, when he'd thought Jaskier was fast asleep and wouldn't hear him.

Jaskier had been awake. Jaskier had felt him pull that hairy, lean body close to his. Felt him nuzzle that dark hair, and kiss that vulnerable nape.

Jaskier had to listen to him slide off the bed. To gather his clothes and boots, and leave the bedroom he never wanted to leave.

But he'd left anyway.

How much hope had Jaskier harbored in his heart, that he would turn around? That he would find that precious piece of paper bearing Jaskier's number—and not just throw it away?

Probably as much as his hope that Jaskier wanted him to stay for eternity.

"Aniolku," he rasped, "means angel."

He shifted his feet, resting them on top of Jaskier's, warming them, harboring them. They were a part of Jaskier. It was important to take care of all of Jaskier.

Jaskier no longer looked like a scared deer. Jaskier's face was flushed again. That soft, sweet smile was returning, lighting up the unique combination of such pretty features into this face that he adored.

"Angel?" Jaskier averted his face and rolled his shoulders like a shy, delighted boy. "Why would you call me that?"

"Well, you—you look like one."

Jaskier's head snapped up in surprise. His smile bloomed into an amused grin.

"What?"

Geralt let out a huff of laughter. Lowered his eyes and ran his fingertips along the edge of his ceramic plate.

"Yeah, uhm. You—look like one." He scrunched his eyes. "You know, like those—" He raised his hands and gestured with them. "Those—rosy-cheeked ones with big eyes and—"

Jaskier chuckled softly, and so did he, opening his crinkled eyes.

" _You know_ , those fat babies with the little wings," he said between snickers, "and the—the baby bow and arrows, and—"

His snickering exploded into peals of laughter when Jaskier stomped on his feet with both of his own in absolute outrage.

"Did you just compare me to a _cherub?!_ "

Jaskier's face was as red as the tomato sauce on their plates. Laughing so hard that he kept missing Geralt's feet.

"You _look_ like one, you really do right now—"

"I do not! Take that back, Geralt!"

Geralt's laughter became soundless, so hard was he laughing. He drew his arms close to his torso and mimicked a cherub loading a tiny bow and firing a tiny arrow from it at Jaskier's red face.

Jaskier laughed so hard that he fell back into his chair, slumping against its cushioned back, pointing a shaky forefinger at Geralt. Geralt's mirth rumbled on at Jaskier trying to speak and only emitting outraged squeaks.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so much. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so much with someone. With someone who'd already seen him nude. Seen him in the throes of an orgasm. Seen, in the stark light of day, all his scars and wounds, fresh and old, and thought them as worthy of love as the rest of him.

It had to be someone extraordinary. Someone audacious and beautiful, with the eyes and face of a cherub, the body and voice of a fallen angel, and the heart and soul of a good man. Someone who had seen him for a mere second—and already loved all of him.

It had to be Jaskier.

"You said something to me that night, but I didn't understand the words," Geralt rasped, in the contented aftermath of their shared laughter. "What did you say?"

Jaskier instantly knew what he was talking about. Jaskier sat up, smiling coyly, eyes lowered.

"After our first time."

"Yes."

Jaskier cleared his throat, then murmured, "Mon magnifique dieu sur terre."

"Yes, that."

Jaskier rolled those big blue eyes at himself. Shrugged, then replied, "I know some very rudimentary French. And I—said it in French because—you know why."

Geralt knew why, acutely.

He could still feel Jaskier's stubbled cheek against his lips while he'd soundlessly said those three words.

Jaskier's big, bright eyes locked with his across the dining table.

"My gorgeous god on earth," Jaskier rasped. "That's what you are."

Oh, now it was his turn to blush.

He cleared his throat. His cheeks warmed when Jaskier's smile expanded with an amalgam of affection and amusement.

"You really think that of me? A—gorgeous god?"

"You don't look at yourself in the mirror much, do you?" Jaskier asked, tenderly.

Geralt grimaced.

"I try not to."

"You really have no idea."

Geralt sighed, then said, "I—know some people find my body attractive."

His traitorous mouth stretched into an amused grin when Jaskier widened his eyes dramatically and gestured at himself with both hands even more dramatically, from head to waist.

"I'm not talking about you, you brat! I'm talking about _other people!_ " He ignored Jaskier rolling those pretty eyes at him. "I'm—" He raised his arms, bent them at the elbows and flexed them, firm muscles bulging for Jaskier's perusal. "I'm not that lacking in self-awareness."

He lowered his arms to the table, pressing his hands flat on its burnished surface.

"But—it's different in the dark of a bar, or a club where everyone's dancing or drinking and—distracted. In the light, people see what they don't want to see, whether they like it or not."

He felt a vicious sting of disappointment even as the words left his mouth. Disappointment in himself, for he should know better after what Jaskier had said to him earlier about his scars. He should _know_ better.

But he also knew why each of his scars, his wounds existed.

He knew words alone, even declared with so much love and faith, couldn't magically erase damage decades-old, or heal it in seconds. He might never heal from it.

He could merely hope that whatever destiny had in store for him—Jaskier would be there at his side, through it all.

Jaskier reached across the table to grasp his hands. Without hesitation, he intertwined their fingers, relishing the sight of Jaskier's paler fingers weaved between his thicker ones. Jaskier waited until their eyes were locked again.

"And yet," Jaskier murmured, "here we are."

They were just five words. Five simple words that even a child could learn and utter. But in the right moment, from the right person, said with just the right amount of burgeoning love and enduring faith—they were powerful enough to quieten old demons, to bandage all wounds.

"Hmmn."

Geralt tightened his fingers around Jaskier's.

It felt right to do so. It felt right to be grasping Jaskier's hands in the momentous wake of those five words. To smile tenderly at him, and speak the simple truth with simple words, and rejoice in the freedom they gave.

"Here we are," he rasped. "Wanting and needing each other."

He saw that bright, beautiful thing dawning in Jaskier's smile that mirrored his, in those crinkled eyes as pellucid as the sky above them.

"It's not so bad, is it?"

It felt right to be here. It felt good to be alive.

It felt good to finally be living.

"No," he murmured, rubbing his thumb across Jaskier's fingers, rubbing his foot against Jaskier's—and basking in his great fortune to be able to do so, when so many would never be blessed the same way. "Not bad at all, aniolku."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was while I was writing this out on Twitter that I realized how much I wanted to write the fellas just bantering and laughing together--and explore how that's going to affect the sex they'll have throughout the weekend. We already know from previous sex scenes that they have great sexual chemistry, but how will things go now that they _see_ each other and know how wonderfully they get along outside of sex? Oh yeah, the next chapter is gonna be _fun_ to write ...
> 
> Next chapter: The sex bonanza! For reals! 🍌🍑💦🔥


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